


Porzellan

by lilien passe (lilienpasse)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-16
Updated: 2014-02-16
Packaged: 2018-01-12 18:19:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 38,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1194888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilienpasse/pseuds/lilien%20passe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A story about Prussia throughout history from the outside, looking in. Told through the eyes of a different human in each chapter, leading to a bittersweet end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue One: The Parchment

**Author's Note:**

> Porzellan, a fic that took three years for me to finish (even though it’s so short…) is finally done! I already posted the last chapter to my ff.net account, but now I’m moving it over here as well.
> 
> I wrote Porzellan with the idea in mind of nations as nearly inhumane creatures. Every chapter is from the perspective of a different human OC, which made it a very big challenge to write.
> 
> There aren’t any major pairings really to speak of, but there are hints of Prussia / Fritz, a bit of Germancest, and allusions to GerIta.
> 
> Major characters are, obviously, Prussia, Germany, and those surrounding them.
> 
> Enjoy, and thank you for reading!

Prologue One: The Parchment

 

A soft pitter-patter of bare feet on the stone-hewn floor echoed through the lonely palace, the sharp bite of black powder wafting through narrow corridors. Servants unconsciously stepped aside as the small figure dashed through the solemn halls, stark white hair streaming out behind him as he went. He skidded around a corner, bursting through a pair of heavy wooden doors with a flurry of wild noise.

"Fritz!"

Frederick looked up from his desk at the small child who stood panting in his study doorway. He laid down his pen to give the young one his full attention, one eyebrow raised in question.

"Fritz!" the child’s red eyes shown brightly as he grinned, bearing his teeth. "Fritz! I won!"

A hint of vicious triumph flitted across the king’s face, before it was smothered by a kind, affectionate smile. “Of course you did,” Frederick said, gesturing for the boy to come and stand next to him, “You promised me you would.”

The child beamed, running forward to pounce on the Italian greyhound curled up sleepily under his ruler’s high backed chair. “It was great!” the boy chirped, gently tugging on the dog’s tail to wake it. “I remember fightin’ before, but it was so much more this time!”

Frederick studied the child. “Because you won?”

"No," the boy smirked, the cunning expression strange on a face so deceptively full with the innocence of youth. "Because I made them lose."

Frederick rose from his chair to join the child on the floor, coaxing out the greyhound from her resting place with a few softly murmured commands. He could feel the boy gazing up at him expectantly.

"You did well, young one," he assured the silver-haired boy, reaching out to gently rest his hand on the soft strands with fatherly affection.

The small figure fidgeted restlessly, blood red eyes trained on the ground. “I know.”

"Then why do you not look proud? This is a glorious day for us."

The child sighed in poorly concealed exasperation and muttered, “You forgot.”

Frederick absently stroked the greyhound’s satin fur as he struggled to clear his head of the duties of war to remember what the elusive promised thing could have been. “The years are weighing heavy on my mind, little one. Remind me.”

"You said…" the boy sighed and trailed off, focusing his attentions on the now content dog sprawled in front of him as he patted her fur, smoothing it into carefully deliberated patterns of silken grays.

Frederick smiled. “I said…?”

"You said I could have a name."

There it was, a sharp and clear memory of not one month ago, when the child had been even smaller, clutching to his hand with desperate fascination as he gave the young one his own title for the first time. When the boy first called him.

"You said I could have a name…since I gave you yours," the boy continued, his meek voice growing suspicious. "I called you ‘Fritz’ and you said –"

"I remember," Frederick said, his eyes shining with a quiet mirth that he seemed unwilling to share. "And I will keep my word."

The king rose to his feet and settled back into his plush arm chair, beckoning the boy to join him. The child grinned and sprung up, eagerly settling on Frederick’s knee and fixing him with an intense gaze, crimson eyes swimming with naked curiosity and selfish delight.

"Now let’s see…" Frederick mused, picking up his pen and a new sheet of parchment. "A name for you…"

"It has t’ be cool!" the child insisted, tugging at Frederick’s sleeve. "One that means somethin’! Somethin’ great!"

"Aloysius?" the young king proposed, laughing when the boy made a disgusted face. "I will take that as a no."

"Hard t’ spell," the boy muttered, picking at a loose thread on Frederick’s sleeve. "Somethin’ easier."

"Walter? Emmett?" Frederick suggested, "Bryon? Claus?"

The boy huffed with impatience, “No, no. That’s all wrong. It needs to be like… like you. Like great. For forever.”

"We may be forced to go with Heidi if you continue rejecting my suggestions," Frederick gently teased, making the young boy glare at him.

"Nooo… Fritz!" the child whined, impatiently snatching the pen from his ruler’s hand and hiding it impishly behind his back. "It has t’ be somethin’ only you get t’ call me."

Frederick’s playful smile grew thoughtful as he skillfully retrieved his pen from the boy’s grasp, eliciting an indignant, “Hey!” from the child.

"Prussia."

He spoke with the voice of a king.

The child straightened his back, his face proud and stern. “Yes, your majesty.”

Frederick looked down at the boy’s haughty countenance, his fine silver hair gleaming in the yellow sunlight that streamed through the window.

"Remember always, young one, that Prussia is the name you give to others. That is the name that will make them fear and respect you."

The red eyes grew hungry. “I understand, my king.”

"This second name is to be a secret," Frederick said firmly, placing his pen to paper and letting the letters bleed out behind his motions, the loops and curls melding into one another as the child tried to follow the movements with a ravenous gaze. Frederick blotted the parchment carefully before pressing it into the boy’s eager hands. "Keep it hidden from all, save for me and those that follow," the king said gently, releasing the small hands so that the boy could see his new name. "Your first name is power. This second one is weakness. Vulnerability. Bear this always in mind, young one. Trust no one with it, save for those in whom you have unrelenting and indomitable faith."

The child almost ripped the paper in his impatience, reading the short word with lightening speed. He looked up into the face of his king, murderous eyes hopeful with an unspoken question.

Frederick nodded, took the paper from the child and folded it, dripping hot wax on the edge to seal it shut with a deft press of his embellished ring. He returned the parchment, and the boy hugged it close, treasured it, before tucking the thin paper away inside his blood-stained robes. He hopped from Frederick’s lap and ran for the door, the greyhound following after him with a graceful stride. He paused at the study door, whipping around to face his king.

"See ya later, Fritz!" the child called out, his voice clamoring with the strike of steel on steel.

Frederick turned to stare out of his study window, one hand raised in a casual gesture of farewell. He smiled openly into the afternoon sun.

"I shall see you soon enough, Gilbert."

The boy puffed up his chest with pride, but remained silent as he slipped out of the room. Frederick watched him go in the reflection of glass, seeing the seed of his ambition take hold of the child with the use of one, simple name.

He returned to his desk, pen resuming its light scratching against the uneven surface. “Goodbye for now,” he murmured softly, finishing his signature with a flourish.

"For now, my little shining one."


	2. Prologue Two: The Flute

Prologue Two: The Flute

Prussia let his traveler’s pack fall to the damp earth, barely registering the cowering servant that hurried forward to retrieve it. One of his generals attempted to engage him in conversation, but he waved the bearded man off with an elegant flip of his wrist, silently making his way across the courtyard. The nation’s scarred boots ground the soil to useless dust beneath his feet as he strode past the rest of his solemn and weary garrison. He peeled off one glove and then the next, throwing the useless blood-stained things over his shoulder with detached ease. The red-eyed man halted suddenly, head cocked to the side as he listened, straining his ears for the far-off lilting strains of a lonely flute.

The young man pushed his way past the painstakingly cultivated trees of the palace grounds, unmindful of the garden’s frail blossoms that were torn to bits as he passed. The delicate notes of the flute song cleansed him of the sounds of battle that raged in his ears, pulling him relentlessly forward. He scrounged up a final burst of energy, pushing his war-weary body up the steep hills that surrounded the last groomed line of hedges, and looked down into the small valley.

A figure was seated with his back against a willow tree as it played on, a loyal greyhound curled languidly beside him. The tree’s delicate branches dipped into the calm surface of the water of a fountain, drawing small ripples that expanded, pushing their way outwards to lap against the narrow edge. Prussia almost broke into a run in his haste to reach the tree, a cool spring breeze blowing away the stench of twisted flesh and bone that for so long had smothered his senses.

He slowed as he approached the aging willow, red eyes narrowing in suspicion. The flute stopped, and the man looked up at his beloved nation in silent greeting, a warm smile wrinkling his face.

Prussia’s iron voice was bereft of any question as the silver-haired nation drew his sword, resting it coolly against the man’s throat.

"Who are you."

The old man pushed aside the weapon with a graceful gesture. “I am your Fritz,” he said, frowning slightly, “And I taught you better than to resort to brute force without first assessing the situation properly.”

"Liar." Prussia hissed, tightening his grip on the sword. "Tell me who you are or I slit your throat."

The old man’s eyes narrowed as he said in a warning voice, “Gilbert. Patience.”

Prussia instantly faltered, the hidden name drawing out a choked noise past chapped and fractured lips. “F-Fritz…” The rising nation sank to his knees in shame, letting the weapon fall to his side. He buried his face in his hands, “I-I am sorry, my liege. I did not recognize you. I did not mean-“

He felt a kind hand rest on his head, and raised stricken blood-red eyes to fix on the smiling face of his king. Frederick’s voice was kind, “It is quite alright, my friend. We have been apart for some time now. And while the years have been kind to you, I am afraid they have taken their toll on me.”

Prussia reached out a shaky hand to trace the thin lines that adored the man’s face, his own rendered in a mask of bewilderment. “I… I do not understand. What has happened to you? Why do you look like this?” he whispered, eyes darting back and forth to take in the graying hair, the sunken eyes of his king, long since vested of their youthful spark.

Frederick gave a light laugh, and gently cupped the nation’s strong and ruthless hand in his own weakening grasp. “For one who has seen so many cut down in their prime on the battlefield, I suppose it should not be so surprising that you are unable to recognize the face of death in this slow and unbecoming form.”

Prussia pulled back, his eyes flying wide open as he spat out in restless fear, “You are dying? But… but how?” His red eyes anxiously roamed his king’s form as he said in puzzlement, “I see no wounds on you, I smell no illness in the air. Are you bleeding internally?”

Frederick laughed loudly, shaking his head in mirth. “Bearing in mind how you act during times of war, I suspect none would presume this subservient attitude of yours to be genuine,” he chuckled, turning to gently soothe the startled greyhound curled up next to him.

Prussia straightened his back, lips curling in a haughty sneer, and crushed the cry of battle from his voice. “You taught me that I am more than simply an object of blind mayhem,” the silver-haired nation said with a lofty air, “Do not think your lectures of culture and refinement fell on deaf ears, Fritz.”

Frederick’s eyes grew soft. “No…” he murmured quietly, carefully picking up the discarded sword and handing it back to the attentive nation. “No I… I suppose I have yet to appreciate your civility.”

Prussia sheathed his sword with practiced ease and leaned forward to stare at Frederick. “Now tell me,” the nation demanded, “How do I keep you from dying? Is there someone I should be hunting to make them release you from this? A doctor I can call? I hear tell of some sort of elixir that Spain’s boss sent adventurers around the globe to fetch. Maybe we could steal some – I hear he has fallen to England so often it cannot even be considered a joke in poor taste anymore. Or perhaps-“

"You cannot stop this, Gilbert."

Prussia snorted. “Ridiculous. There is nothing I cannot do,” the nation smiled in triumph, “Not with you leading me.”

"I’m afraid I am quite serious," Frederick said solemnly, throwing a stick for the eager greyhound to fetch. "There are enemies even you cannot defeat. This is merely one of them."

Prussia fell silent, sudden anxious fingers pulling out clumps of soft grass, building a gradual pile in front of him. “So then, I too…” he swallowed heavily, eyes downcast. “Will I-“

"You will not," Frederick said firmly, putting away his flute with a resolute snap of the case. "Not as we will. Time runs its course differently for you."

The nation remained silent, ripping out even bigger chunks of grass with slowly building frustration before bursting out, “What are you saying? That I remain forever as I am? Unchanging, unchanged while you… while Fritz…” the young man rubbed the back of his eyes with one tired and calloused hand.

"There is only one other thing that can change you or make you fade as we do," Frederick said quietly, gazing out over the still fountain waters. "Only another of your kind has this power over you. And if they know your other name…" Frederick sighed, "You are keeping it close? Keeping it secret?"

Prussia nodded, one hand flying up to cover his chest. “With me at all times,” he said solemnly. He raised his head to fix his king with a questioning gaze. “These… others like me. You mean France, England… any of them could make me…” Prussia trailed off, picking up the stick from where the hound had dropped it and angrily flinging it off into the middle of the fountain, ignoring the mournful eyes of the dog as it stared at him.

Frederick shook his head disapprovingly, frowning at the young man and making him flush slightly with shame. The king sighed softly, “Not any of them. They cannot erase you so completely. There is only one with that sort of power. But for now, it remains merely an idea left to us. It certainly will not come to fruition during my lifetime. But perhaps…”

"An idea," Prussia said slowly, his ruby eyes flickering to the side to stare off behind the willow tree. "What would this idea look like?"

Frederick blinked, “Look like? Gilbert, ideas do not-“

"It’s a kid, isn’t it?" Prussia asked bitterly, angrily sweeping away the pile of grass he had gathered in front of him. "A child. With blonde hair and blue eyes."

Frederick’s hand darted forward, gripping Prussia’s upper arms tight with a strength that did not match his age. “This child…” he said sternly, “This blonde child. You have seen him?”

Prussia’s eyes were wide as he nodded hesitantly. “Yes…”

"Where did you see him? On the battlefield? At Austria’s?" the old man’s grip grew tighter, making Prussia wince slightly, as the nation stammered, "N-no…"

Frederick gently shook the young man, his voice strained, “Where, then?”

Prussia raised one shaky finger to point at the willow tree. “T-There,” he said warily, “He is beside that tree now. It only just appeared as you were talking.”

Frederick whirled around just in time to catch a flash of blue as it darted behind the willow. He made to rise to his feet, but Prussia reached out and grabbed his sleeve, shaking his pale head.

"It’s no good now, Fritz," the red-eyed nation said, releasing his grip with an abashed expression. "He is gone."

Frederick sighed softly and leaned against the tree again, pulling Prussia close to him. “You have seen him often, then?” he asked quietly, holding the nation as though afraid he would fade to nothing.

Prussia nodded, wrinkling his nose slightly at the close quarters, but remaining silent on the matter. “I have,” he said instead, ruby-eyes flashing blood for a moment. “I have lashed out at it with all manner of weapon, but it insists on returning time and again.” The nation lifted his head to look Frederick in the eye. “Tell me,” he insisted, the sound of his beloved war rising once again in the soft tenor, “Tell me how I can kill it.”

Frederick ran his hand through the silver strands. “I am afraid,” he murmured, “That this is another enemy you will be unable to vanquish.”

Prussia snarled, “Does this unassailable foe have a name? Or am I expected to simply quake in fear whenever it makes an appearance?”

Frederick rose to his feet, pulling the nation up with him. He whistled for the greyhound, and she trotted obediently to his side while Prussia stood expectantly, iron arms crossed against his thin chest. Frederick picked up his flute, as well as his latest letter to the house of France, and made his way slowly up the hill.

"H-hey! Fritz!" Prussia called after him, hurrying to catch up with his king. "Fritz, you did not answer my question! Tell me its name!"

Frederick continued onward clutching the letter tighter in his fist. “What would you make of this question, old friend?” he whispered, turning around to watch Prussia attempt to ward off the playful greyhound as the young nation struggled to follow him up the hill. His smile grew sad as he murmured to himself, “With all your philosophizing, how would you tell this young one that it is the uncaring pages of history he is warring with?”

The old man stood still to let the nation catch up, bringing with him the sudden smell of early summer rains. Prussia panted slightly, glaring down murderously at the dog sitting impassively at his side. “Stupid thing tripped me on purpose,” he declared, focusing his attention once more on Frederick as he insisted, “Now, Fritz! Tell me the brat’s name.”

Frederick shook his head, gesturing for Prussia to follow. “I do not know its name,” he said quietly, “And I can only think of one thing it could be called, irrespective of name.”

"Well?" Prussia said edgily, his impatience causing the soft summer wind to chill, "Tell me!"

Frederick’s face grew grave as he reached the top of the hill. “Gilbert…” he looked out over his palace, at all that he had nurtured and cared for. At Prussia itself.

"That boy…" he looked away, out towards the West, his voice low and somber as he intoned with a heavy air of finality.

"That boy is your brother."


	3. Prologue Three: The Chair

Prologue Three: The Chair

The air was heavy with unshed rain, the sky a turbulent grey as it raged above. The castle was lonely and solemn in the remnants of summer heat, and Elisabeth was a widow.

She stood in front of the plush armchair where a bewildered servant had stumbled upon him and tried to swallow the lump that had lodged itself in her throat. It was all so sudden, so unbelievably… what kind of flowers were they to have for the funeral? Lilies were rather out of style, she thought desperately, fanning herself in the sweltering heat as she stared at the beloved chair. Perhaps peonies or a tasteful arrangement of lilacs would be more appropriate. Except where would one find peonies at this time of year? Perhaps she would go and gather them herself…

She gave a breathy sigh, nervous fingers twirling about her embroidered fan. Why hadn’t she been there? Why had he not called her for this at least? For this last moment when they could have pretended. Pretended like they used to when his father was alive and towering over him and things were simpler then. Unquestionably so.

A low roll of thunder in the distance shook her to the core, and she gasped, startled at the brilliant flash of light that set the summer sky ablaze. She clung to the armchair for support, breathing heavily, makeup streaming down her face from the combination of heat and fear.

The thunder faded, pushed aside by a new force. She felt it building from somewhere to the east, a primeval scream of sorrow and rage that swelled to a deafening roar. It burst through the palace, making the walls shake with the force of it. It stormed into the study, flinging the doors open to slam into the delicate walls behind them, a snarling thing of fear and grief that made the very air around her boil. It was the lonely cry of a nation, vested of its king, with the shrieks and laments of millions behind it. Elisabeth clasped her hands to her ears, sinking to the floor while all around her she saw her servants do the same, their faces contorted in agony.

At once the roar ceased, the air stilled, and Elizabeth opened her blue eyes to see a pale and shaken man take one hesitant step into the room.

"Fritz…"

He murmured her husband’s name so lovingly from ashen lips, his red eyes mad with sorrow as he stumbled forward, oblivious to all around him. His voice was like the lonely whirl of a flute, the air around him stank of rancid blood, cloying in the summer heat. Elisabeth fought back the urge to retch as she stared at the man with wide eyes. But no. No, she reminded herself fiercely, not a man.

She rose to her feet in a flurry of anger, gesturing with her fan.

Not a he.

"Get this… this thing out of here!” she demanded, whirling around in a flurry of skirts. “I am sure it has more violence to attend to.”

The servants shuffled nervously, but not a one of them moved to do her bidding. Elisabeth heard it take a step forward, and she braced herself against the arm chair. “Did you not hear me?” she snapped in slight desperation, “I wish for it to be removed from my presence!”

She felt cold breath on her neck and she turned, her mouth set in a thin and determined line. The silver-haired thing in men’s clothing stared down at her with ruby siren eyes. It bared its fangs.

"Step aside."

She mutely shook her head, clutching her fan to her bosom. “I-I have spent my whole life in service to you,” she spat out, the words a vile poison in her mouth. “I remained silent to keep you powerful. To keep your beloved from shame!”

It took another step forward with ethereal grace. “Oh no, my dear queen,” it whispered soothingly to her, its beautiful face vibrant and cruel, “You remained silent because you were given no choice.”

"He-that is a falsehood!" she stammered, eyes flickering to the servants along the wall, ordering them with her gaze to action. They remained impassive. She swallowed, her tongue like sandpaper against the roof of her mouth as she cowered beneath the thing’s looming presence. "H-he loved me!" she said hoarsely, her breath growing faint and shallow. "I was his wife! He-"

With a noise of black eagle’s wings, the thing was upon her, grasping her shoulders with talon-like fingers as it bore down, red eyes piercing into her as it raged. “He never loved you!” it yelled, shaking her fiercely, making her teeth clack together painfully behind painted lips. “He abhorred you! You were a disgrace to him! Pestilence bound only for the sake of convenience!” It threw her to the ground with a wretched snarl.

She gathered her courage and looked up, a cold and bitter smile on her face. “Then,” she said coldly, “it would seem he loved neither of us.”

The thing froze, and the violent tension abated slightly at its hesitation. The servants fled while they had the chance, skirting the two noble figures poised in the center of the room.

The queen’s vision was suddenly white with anger as she spat out, “He hated everything about you. You… you vile thing, without a semblance of culture or civility, just a tool he used to cut a swath of blood across this place! The house of France was more his heart’s home than you ever were.”

The creature swallowed, a poor mimicry of human gesture, and glared down at her with all the venom it could muster. “You’re lying,” it ground out, skeletal hands clenched to fists at its side. Its face twisted with rage. “You’re lyin’!” it shouted, and the room shook to its foundations.

Suddenly it whirled to face the lone chair, eyes narrowed and dangerous. “Don’t touch that,” it commanded to the empty room, the barked order echoing dully against the book cases. Elisabeth frowned and strained her neck from her disadvantageous position on the floor to peer at the armchair. There was nothing there. Yet the thing continued to speak, muttering as though it were holding a conversation with something other than itself.

"I told you not to touch that, you little blonde brat," it snapped, stalking over to the plush high-backed chair with quick, angry strides, "That was his and so help me God if you lay even one finger on it I’ll find some way to eradicate you!" It swung a vicious fist through the empty air, its voice growing stronger with each word that rent the air like hollow lightening.

It snarled with crazed fury. “Get out of here!” the thing bellowed in a clanging of weaponry, clutching at its head as though in excruciating pain. “Leave my house!”

Elisabeth watched in wary fear as the thing began to rampage, tearing books from the wall, smashing the ancient oak desk to kindling, turning everything in the room to useless debris. Glass shattered, wood snapped, metal twisted in on itself as though caught in the crossfire of a city under siege. Only the chair, the lone piece of furniture standing testament to the fallen man, remained unscathed.

Elisabeth could feel the storm gradually abate, the anger of a nation washing away with the warm summer rains, swallowed whole by the rawness of guilt and sorrow.

The thing collapsed to its knees in front of the armchair, resting its damp and sweaty forehead against the embroidered fabric, its breathing harsh and labored as it murmured deliriously to itself.

The queen rose to her feet, trying to stifle the pang of motherly affection that at the sight of the thing in men’s skin. Curiously loosened her tongue.

"To… to whom were you speaking?"

The thing turned its head slightly, ethereal silver hair falling to shade its eyes as it bit out tiredly, “That is none of your concern.”

Elisabeth straightened her back, gazing down from her vaunted position at the grief stricken figure. “I may not have born him any children, but I am still your queen,” she said proudly, her blue eyes shining with the nobility of ages, “And I demand you give me an answer.”

It rose slowly to its feet like an injured animal, ready to lash out at anything that came near. The thing sneered with a flash of perfect, bone white teeth as it spat out, “I won’t take orders from Hapsburg whores.”

Her hand made a loud cracking noise as it connected with the thing’s smirking face. It stared back impassively at her; unfazed, unimpressed. Elisabeth swallowed, barely controlling her temper. “I will ask you again,” she said loftily, hiding her stinging palm behind her back. “To whom were you speaking?”

For a moment, she could have sworn it looked hurt, confused. In a moment though, the expression was gone as it shook its silvery head. “It is… something he left me,” the thing muttered, its alabaster skin flushing slightly. “He called it an idea.”

Elisabeth pursed her lips, “An idea? How on earth could you be yelling at an-“

"Enough!" it barked at her, black coat swirling around it as the thing turned to face the chair. "Leave me in peace."

"I beg your pardon?" the queen said aghast, "You are in no position to-"

The words caught in her throat as it stared at her, unearthly red eyes pulsing with the power and fury of a nation on the brink of destruction. The shredded pages of countless priceless tomes fluttered weakly despite the absence of a draft or wind that could so stir them to life. The shelves cracked and splintered, tumbling more books to the floor as the whole room began to shake with the relentless pounding of thousands of war horses closing in on the front.

Elisabeth let out a startled shriek as a lamp crashed to the ground, shards of delicate glass flying in all directions. She shut her eyes against it, against Prussia as it reigned down destruction around her, and she felt fear grip her tight, pressing her against its cold breast.

Without warning, the rumbling stopped. Elisabeth raised her head. It was staring fixed off into the distance, not even focusing on her as she stood shakily.

"Get the hell out," it said simply, kneeling down to rest in front of the chair. "Leave us in peace."

Elisabeth bit her lip until it bled, before turning on her heel and walking out of the ruined study with as much dignity as she could muster. She stopped at the threshold and darted around a corner to hide herself behind one of the large, splintered doors. She peered in on the thing kneeling in front of her husband’s beloved chair, fervently hoping that from her vantage point she could see or hear whatever it was her husband had entrusted to it.

The pale figure lay still as death, its head pillowed against the worn cushions of the chair. Suddenly, it gave a choked sob, and drew its bony knees to its chest.

Elisabeth gasped, and her hand flew up to stifle the noise. She stared into the room, unable to believe what she was seeing.

Prussia was curled on the floor, an old piece of parchment clutched desperately in his hand as he rocked back and forth. Translucent drops trickled down his proud jaw line, and Elisabeth heard him take a shaky breath that was closer to a cry than to any other sound she had heard him make.

"F-Fritz…" his thin back shook with exhausted grief as he drew even tighter in on himself. "Fritz, please…" he sobbed quietly, "Please don’t leave me…"

He remained nearly motionless for what seemed like hours, completely silent, save for a few poorly stifled sobs that echoed dully around the destroyed room. Every so often, he would raise his head and just stare at the chair, as though willing his beloved to return to occupy its seat once more. But after a moment he always lowered his head again, his arms curling tighter around himself.

Suddenly, a tiny whimper sounded from behind one of the plush curtains, and Prussia raised his tear-streaked face in alarm.

In a moment, the man was gone. It wiped at his face with an angry palm, as it snarled, “Show yourself!”

A thin, forlorn looking greyhound slunk out from behind the drapery, tail tucked between its legs. The thing stared at the dog, and for a heart-wrenching moment, Elisabeth thought it was going to wring the greyhound’s neck, as the nation reached out one calloused hand towards the cowering animal.

Then suddenly, Prussia pulled the greyhound towards him, and buried his face in its soft fur, running a shaky hand down the dog’s thin back. Elisabeth heard the man give a weak chuckle, as he said haggardly, “I don’t even know your name, mutt. What good are you without that?”

Elisabeth felt a quiet stirring of sympathy in her chest, and she turned, treading softly as she made her way down the hallway. From the study, she heard the thing, the man’s broken sobs echo down the corridor, and she began to run, desperate to leave the scene of death and pain.

She clasped a hand over her mouth, tears dragging thin streaks of makeup down her cheeks. She stumbled, and braced herself against one elegant wall, her vision blurring before her. “Oh, Frederick…” she murmured, wishing she could somehow rid herself of the sound of her nation’s mournful cries. “Frederick… you were never mine, were you…”

Elisabeth heard the sound of servants making their way down the hall, and she straightened, pulling her public facade back in place with practiced ease. She shook her head, and threw back her shoulders.

"Frederick."

She opened her fan to ward off the heat as she strode calmly down the hallway, ignoring the cries of pain and loneliness that streamed from behind her.

She sighed delicately.

"Whatever will it do without you."


	4. Chapter One – The Bath

Erster Kapitel – The Bath

On sunny days, Elsa was never afraid.

She smiled to herself as she poured the bath water, testing the temperature with a delicate flick of her wrist. She pushed strings of blonde hair away from her face and moved to open the bay windows, letting spring air billow in around the white curtains.

From out in the hallway came the distant sound of humming, deep and throaty like the rumbling of an approaching train. Elsa stood to attention, her hands twisting themselves into the pleated folds of her skirt. She stared straight ahead at the engraved door handle, starting slightly when it began to turn.

And then he was in the room, long coat whirling around him. He smiled at her, a flash of brilliant white teeth and ruby red eyes.

"Guten Morgen, Fraulein. Impeccable timing, as usual."

Elsa swallowed heavily, stammering out a reply. “I-I have been in your lordship’s service for nearly three months. My lord keeps to a rather precise schedule. As such, menial tasks like these-“

"Enough, Fraulein." He gave a dramatic sigh. "I quickly grow tired of those sorts of formalities - as I have undoubtedly told you many times before. What if you were in danger and needed my superior talents to rescue you? It would take you a week at best just to formulate a formal request for said rescue. And then I would need to find a new personal assistant. Do you see the troubles overly flowery language can bring?"

Elsa gave a delicate laugh, hiding it behind her hand. He smirked and shrugged out of his heavy coat, throwing it gracelessly to the tiled floor. Elsa hurried to retrieve it, and stood patiently by, her eyes fixed on the ground as he continued to shed articles of clothing, tossing them in her direction. He snapped his fingers, and Elsa scurried away to take her place behind an opaque curtain in the corner of the room.

As she began folding his clothing, she heard him enter the bath, giving a loud and contented sigh as he did so. Elsa took a deep breath.

"If there is anything my Lord Advisor needs-"

"I know. Snap twice for beer. Once for linen."

She listened to the sound of him settling against the sides of the tub, and she folded his shirt, breathing in the fresh scent of spring that always seemed to linger about him. Like warm grass in sunlight, like the breeze billowing into the room. Like life.

Suddenly he spoke again. “Talk to me, Fraulein. Solitude looses its charm far too quickly for my liking.”

Elsa hesitated, her brown eyes fixed on the wall in front of her. “I-I would not presume to know any topics of conversation that might interest your honor-“

"Stop stop stop," he groaned, and Elsa heard the sound of water spilling over the edge of the tub as he shifted around. "As much as I enjoy having my ego stroked at every available opportunity, it tends to dull what little conversation I am able to enjoy nowadays. You may call me Prussia. As I have asked you to since the day I hired you."

Elsa twisted her hands in her skirt for the thousandth time. “I… will. As long as you allow me to call you Lord Prussia. Surely it is not nearly as odd a nickname as the one you have already chosen for yourself.” Her chest contracted with her own daring, and she bit the inside of her cheek.

But all he did was laugh uproariously, coughing when his movements caused water to find its way into his lungs. “How brazen of you!” he wheezed out after the coughing fit had subsided. “Rather like another young lady I know. Although I must say your company is far more pleasant and far less inclined to bash me upside the head with kitchenwares.”

Elsa furrowed her eyebrows. “I… I do not know what my lordship is referring to…”

"…Nothing." He moved again, and Elsa could almost feel him staring at her through the curtain, his gaze amused and inquisitive. "Tell me, Fraulein. What is your name?"

"E-Elsa."

"Wonderful. Would you mind bringing that chair of yours out into the open where I can see you? I despise talking to curtains, regardless of how many beautiful young women holding my undergarments may be hiding behind them."

Elsa felt her face burst into flame as she stammered, “B-But my lord-“

"Prussia."

"But… but my Lord Prussia is in a state of undress that-"

"I assure you, Fraulein. The water is far too cloudy to place your otherwise untarnished virtue in any danger. Please."

Elsa sat still for a few minutes before slowly standing and pulling her chair around to the other side of the curtain. She sat primly down, brushing the wrinkles from her skirt, and looked up to find him staring at her with one pale eyebrow raised.

"That is… a rather overly cautious place you have chosen to settle."

"You can see me, can you not?" She smiled, "I do not believe distance was ever a factor in our negotiations."

He burst out laughing again, causing the water in the tub to rise up into tiny waves. “I was right to pick you! A shame you cannot accompany me to those excruciatingly tedious meetings. Or… hm…” he trailed off, dark eyes scrutinizing her. “Fraulein. Do you know your letters?”

She flushed. “Well enough.”

"Excellent." He smiled brightly. "Then I will arrange for you to act as my secretary at the next meeting. Paul has become a rather tiresome personality to deal with and insists on pandering to the Kaiser at every available opportunity. He will be dealt with shortly."

Elsa merely hummed as a way of response, setting aside the last of the folded laundry. “I have always wondered why my lord chooses to bathe so frequently,” she suddenly mused aloud, smoothing out the wrinkles in the pale linen sheet. “You do so more often than anyone else I have ever served.”

He gave a quiet sigh and sank lower into the bubbles as he said irritably, “When one is endlessly covered in the stink of millions, it becomes not only comforting but downright necessary to wash away the grime of a nation at least once a day. I consider it one of the few luxuries I afford myself in an otherwise ascetic existence.”

Elsa furrowed her eyebrows, and opened her mouth to respond, when she caught a flash of blonde at the doorway, and one cornflower blue eye peering around the corner. In an instant it was gone. She frowned slightly.

"Fraulein? What is it?" he asked, absently playing with the few remaining bubbles in the bath.

"The young master," she replied. "He has been stopping by every few minutes to peer in. I believe he wishes to speak with you."

The temperature in the room instantly dropped as a vicious wind tore through the open window. Elsa started, and moved to close the windows. But before she could even rise to her feet the wind had dissipated along with his bitter sigh.

"Go out into the corridor. Make sure the brat is not there," he said, voice sharp with animosity. "If he is, then tell him the next time he shows his face around me outside of a council meeting, I will deal with him accordingly- whether the Kaiser believes him to be my superior or not."

Elsa gave a quick nod and rose swiftly from her chair, hurrying to the door. She peered around the doorway to where the blonde boy was crouched next to the wall, his small knees drawn up to his chest. The child glanced at her, his pale blue eyes wide with fear. Elsa grinned and pressed a finger to her lips before calling out, “He is gone. Shall I go look for him to relay your message?”

The blonde boy gave Elsa a shaky smile, and mimicked her earlier action, raising a finger to his thin lips. From inside the room, she heard him sigh. “No… I suppose he will show up sooner or later to bother me again. I can deal with him then.”

Elsa waved her hand quickly to shoo the young boy away. He smiled at her, grateful and quiet, before hurrying down the corridor, his untucked shirt flapping behind him like an ungainly bird’s wings. Elsa slipped back inside and resumed her spot on the chair. She looked up to see him staring at her over the rim of the tub, narrowed eyes flickering with curiosity.

"Tell me, Fraulein. What do you think of the brat?"

She frowned. “Think of him, my lord?”

"Yes." His luminous eyes were fixed on her face, and Elsa felt her heart flutter weakly in her chest. "Do you not find it odd that the Kaiser should require me to report to him? A brat of barely two years old? Does it not strike you as a most peculiar way of running a manor, much less an entire nation?"

Elsa blinked in surprise. “Two years old? My lord, surely you are mistaken. A child that young would barely be out of swaddling clothes, much less be able to read and write fluently. His progress is remarkable enough as it is. A few months ago when I first joined your staff, he barely knew his letters at all, and now-“

"Yes, yes," he interrupted, his tone curt and dismissive. "But considering the imp was born with an innate knowledge of our mother tongue I daresay he is actually rather behind schedule in terms of mental development. Such a slow study… can barely handle a sword even after receiving lessons from the best in the business – by which I mean mine own illustrious self, of course."

Elsa let herself smile slightly as she watched his face turn from a sneering glower to practically purring with self-serving contentment. She paused, before saying slyly, “My lord fancies himself a skilled fencer then?”

He whirled in the bathtub to face her, his face contorted with surprise. “Skilled?” he spluttered in indignation. “What a plebian word to apply to my greatness! I should have you hung for daring to degrade my talents to such a whorishly low level. Skilled…” he muttered angrily, but his red eyes shone with amusement at Elsa’s bright laughter, and a small smile played around his features, making his whole face light up with a youthful glow.

The sun shone outside as the breeze billowed past the curtains. Elsa felt a small whirl of happiness settle in her breast as she sat by his side and simply watched him talk animatedly, taking in the sardonic curve of his mouth, the flash of his eyes, the pallor of his skin glistening with a slight sheen of water. He was a marred perfectionist creation that was alive and breathing and pulsing with an energy unlike any other she had encountered. She could not help but stare.

Elsa blinked out of her reverie to find his eyes trained on her face, and she gasped, drawing backwards. He let out a low chuckle and sank back into the tub.

"In most cultures it is impolite to gape at another’s exposed form for such a long time, especially with such a scrutinizing countenance," he said primly, skimming the last of the bubbles off the surface of the cloudy water.

"I-…Forgive me, my lord, I-"

"There is nothing to forgive." He closed his eyes, still smiling. "To be honest, receiving the attentions of one like yourself is merely the slightest bit flattering. Nothing more." He snapped his fingers, and Elsa hurried forward with the linen sheet. She held it up to allow him to exit the tub, and she felt cool fingers wrap around her own for a fleeting moment, before pulling away. She heard the rustle of cloth he wrapped the sheet around himself. He grabbed her chin and gently lifted her face to meet his eyes. Her heart nearly stopped.

But he merely smiled that enigmatic grin and tiled his head to the side. “My clothes, Fraulein?”

She swallowed. “By… by the chair, my lord.”

He nodded and released her, waving his hand in dismissal. “I shall see you soon enough, I expect. Look for my letter.”

Elsa curtseyed, and quickly left the room, letting the door close softly behind her. She leaned up against the oak surface, her heart still in her throat. She felt like singing.

He smiled, and the sun shone.

On sunny days, she was never afraid.

On stormy days, Elsa came to be afraid.

She was in the library, gathering up dusty and disintegrating tomes that left pale streaks of old leather on her dress. She scowled slightly, and batted at the cloth, sending up clouds of debris and bits of old parchment. From behind her came a small cough, and she started. She turned to see the young blonde boy crouching behind a stack of old books. Elsa took a deep breath to calm herself and smiled her most brilliant.

"Hello. What are you doing in here, young one?"

The child peered at her from around the books. “You… are Elsa.”

"I am," she said pleasantly, taking a cautious step towards the boy. "How did you know that?"

He frowned slightly. “Marta told me. She said you’re big brother’s favorite.”

Elsa sighed. Marta never did know when to mind her own business. Even though the older servant was head of staff, she was always complaining that she was saddled with taking care of the child while Elsa got to go on hunting trips and diplomatic excursions with the lord advisor. But…

"Big… brother?" she inquired, her voice betraying her surprise. "I had no idea. He seems so much older than you…"

The blonde boy nodded, and took one shy step out from behind the enormous stack of parchment. “He is. That’s why I’m here.”

Elsa raised her eyebrows. “Oh? Why exactly?”

"I want to learn more about my brother," the child said firmly, sticking out his chin. "I asked everyone about him but no one would tell me anything and so then I asked them where people go to learn things and they said the library and so I asked them where the library was and then I came here but all these books are too heavy and some of them are in Latin and I still have trouble with that from time to time even though I’ve been told I need to learn but it’s so boring and it isn’t easy and I hate it." He took a deep breath, panting slightly after such a long string of uninterrupted words.

Elsa laughed and felt a small glow of motherly affection for the boy. She beckoned him forward, and held out her hand. “Well, I suppose I can help you. Will you let me?”

The boy eyed her outstretched hand warily for a few moments before giving a small nod and walking forward to place his small hand in hers. He held on tightly.

Elsa smiled. “Well then. Where shall we look?”

He wordlessly pointed, and she followed the small chubby finger.

"There? In the history section?"

The child nodded. “Yes.”

Elsa laughed. “You are precious, but I do not think we will be able to find anything about your brother in there. Those are much too old.”

The blonde boy screwed up his face, as though concentrating very hard. “…No. I’m sure,” he said firmly. “I need those books. Especially the ones on the top right. Please,” he added as an afterthought.

Elsa raised her eyebrows but did not comment further. She reached up and retrieved the battered and dusty books, setting them on the floor where the boy could reach them. She crouched down beside the child as he eagerly flipped open the cover of the first and began reading, his cornflower blue eyes flickering back and forth at a rapid speed. Elsa watched him for a moment before saying slowly, “I’m afraid I have to leave you for a bit, young one. Your… brother has sent me on an errand looking for something. Will you be all right here for a few moments? I promise I will not be long, and then I can take you to speak with the lord advisor. I’m sure if you talk to him he would be willing to tell you all about himself.”

The boy merely nodded and turned a page, too absorbed in his reading to respond further. Elsa tiptoed away and continued searching for the books he had sent her to fetch. After another half an hour of struggling, she finally had them all. She set down the huge stack with a loud sigh of contentment, and then went off to find the boy. He was still crouched in the same spot she had left him with a gigantic book opened on the floor. The child turned as he heard her coming, a grin blossoming on his face.

"Look, Elsa! I found my brother!"

She smiled indulgently and stroked the fine flaxen hair. “Your brother must be very ancient then. That book looks like it could be nearly a century old. Are you sure you aren’t mistaken?”

"No! It’s really him!" the boy insisted, tugging on her skirts to make her sit beside him. "Look."

Elsa bit her tongue and looked obediently at the book. Her eyes widened in surprise.

Next to a paragraph written entirely in French was a lithograph of two men on horseback. One of the men had a noble face, stern and unyielding as he brandished a gilded sword, the perfect picture of a dashing aristocrat. The other figure, however, was smaller in stature, tucked away into the background. Pale hair shone from underneath a wide brimmed hat, and he too carried a bright sword. His, however, was bereft of decoration. He wore a cruel and triumphant smile as he held it aloft, as though daring even the onlookers of the print to challenge him as he galloped forward, almost seeming to leap off the page with the fervor of conquest.

It was unmistakably him.

And yet… Elsa tilted her head to the side, studying the picture further. It was not. There was something in his eyes, some ferocity that made Elsa take a closer look, and the longer she gazed at the picture, the more convinced she became.

"It does look a great deal like him," she admitted, gently prying the tome out of the young boy’s hands. "But that is impossible. Your imagination has just run away with itself." She stood and reshelved the book, trying to ignore the quiet beginnings of questions that were steadily gaining a voice inside her head.

The child remained silent, his face far too thoughtful for one so young. Elsa offered him her hand, and he took it wordlessly, allowing himself be pulled to his feet. She crouched down in front of the boy, and smiled.

"Would you like to help me take these books to his room? I’m afraid they are a trifle too heavy for me to manage alone."

The blonde child scrutinized her for a moment before nodding silently and picking up a few of the tomes, his small arms shaking slightly under the weight. He turned and walked out of the library, but paused in the doorway.

"Big brother… is a violent thing, isn’t he? Is that why they don’t talk about him anymore?"

Elsa hefted the last of the tomes, and said cautiously, “He is a fine fencer, but I cannot imagine him capable of hurting even the smallest of God’s creatures.” She smiled fondly as she strode forward to stand next to the child. “He has never spoken to me in anger, and one gets the feeling that most of his threats are empty air, spoken simply for show and bravado.”

"But… but in that book-" the child started to protest, but Elsa interrupted him firmly.

"Come now. That was not your brother," she gently scolded. "I will admit the resemblance is striking, but surely it is just a relation of his that by happenstance alone shares a great many physical traits. I’m sure if you inquired into the picture you would hear a similar explanation." She tilted her head towards the hallway, and smiled down at the boy. "Now let us deliver these quickly. They grow heavier by the second."

The two walked in silence for a long time, the other servants and hired help skirting them a wide birth as they made their way down the hallways. Finally they reached his rather austere room, and Elsa cautiously freed one hand to rap sharply on the door. There was no answer. She maneuvered the books to one side and gently pushed open the unadorned door. She quickly walked over to the great desk that loomed in one corner of the room and set down her load with a small sigh of relief. The young boy mimicked her actions, standing on tiptoe to reach the top of the desk. He nearly fell backwards as he finally let go of the tomes, and Elsa reached out to steady him, laughing brightly.

He gave her a polite “thank you” before turning his head to study the rather Spartan room. Elsa let him explore as she spotted several coats and shirts that had been left in rumpled piles on the floor. She instinctively began tidying the place, straightening pens and pots of ink on the desk, placing coats and hats on their hooks inside his wardrobe, pulling the sheets on the bed to smooth out any wrinkles. She heard a quiet rustling noise behind her and turned to see the boy sprawled out on the floor, a piece of old parchment in his hands.

"What did you find there?" she asked absently, frowning at a stubborn stain.

"A piece of parchment," came the reply.

She folded another shirt. “Is there anything written on it?”

More rustling. “…Only one word.”

"Then you should throw it out," she said primly, hanging up the last of his coats inside the wardrobe. "We can surprise the lord advisor by straightening up a bit."

Suddenly the door to the room opened, and he walked in, throwing his coat on the newly made bed. His red eyes widened in surprise when he saw Elsa, and a small smile flitted across his face before he noticed the blonde boy on the floor, and a frown quickly shadowed the pleasant expression.

"Please tell me he has joined the help and I no longer need to pander to his childish whims?" he said arrogantly, an undercurrent of irritation the only sign that he was upset. "The brat would make a rather fetching handmaiden, don’t you agree?"

Elsa laughed quietly. “Only for today, perhaps. The books you requested were a great deal more cumbersome than I had anticipated. Luckily this strapping young man was here to help me.”

Out of the corner of her eye she saw the young boy flush hotly as he rose to his feet, anxious hands toying with the piece of parchment. “Um….” the child glanced at Elsa for reassurance, and she gave him a small nod and an encouraging smile.

The blonde boy visibly swallowed before speaking, his voice quiet and shaky. “Um… Bruder?”

"Don’t call me that," he snapped, the playful mood instantly souring. "Don’t call me anything. Just speak, and let that be enough. I despise useless words."

"I-I understand," the boy said meekly. He fidgeted for a moment longer before asking quietly, "Who’s Gilbert?"

The room instantly grew cold as ice, and Elsa gasped in surprise as her breath crystallized in the air. She abandoned her folding and turned around, the chill making her blood run cold.

He was standing perfectly motionless, but underneath the calm surface she could almost see something stirring – something dark and inhumane that made her want to hide in the wardrobe like she used to when she was a child and there were monsters everywhere. His hair shadowed his face, but she could still see his eyes trained on the small boy, their ruby color no longer the comforting warmth of a sunset, but cruel and hard like the unyielding stone itself. When he spoke, it was as though iron spikes had been driven into her feet, rooting her in place, unable to flee the crawling and visceral thing before her.

"…How do you know that name?"

The boy was trembling slightly as he held out the scrap of parchment. “I… This was under your bed. I didn’t mean to-“

"You read it?" The voice was smooth and poised, like silk covering a rusty and contorted dagger.

The child hesitated, and Elsa saw a spark of uncertainty in his eyes before he nodded slowly.

The red eyes flickered to the side to scrutinize her. “And you, Fraulein? Did you read what was written on this… scrap?”

She mutely shook her head, clutching one of his shirts to her chest.

In two quick strides he was in front of Elsa, and she gave a quiet cry of dismay. He ignored her, and grabbed her by the arm, yanking hard enough to dislodge her shoulder. He dragged her away from the terrified looking boy and shoved her through the door to the adjoining room. She fell heavily to the floor, the wind knocked out of her, and looked up just in time to see him stare down and study her as he said calmly, “Do not move from this spot, Fraulein. Forget what you will hear – it has no business in the realm of men, in any case. Should your memory prove vapid enough, you may well yet escape this unscathed.”

He slammed the door shut with such ferocity that it ricocheted off the door jam and remained slightly ajar. A hairline crack no bigger than Elsa’s thumb let a thin streak of light into the darkened room. She stared at the sole glimmer of white, watching the shadows moving across it, unable to reconcile his sudden transformation with the lord she knew. She gave a quiet and muffled sob, clutching at her throbbing shoulder to stabilize it as she trembled with fear and shame. Her heart was pounding so noisily and her breath coming in such loud gasps she was sure he was going to hear it and any moment now he would wrench open the door and…and…

Elsa held her breath to stifle the noise, and in the silence that followed she could hear him speaking. She tried to shut out the sound of his soothing voice, but even through the almost crippling panic that was wrapping bands of iron around her lungs, a spark of curiosity made her to move forward. She cautiously unwrapped herself from her curled up position on the floor and crawled slowly towards the door. She pressed her eye to the crack, blinking to adjust to the sudden glare of harsh light.

He was standing with his back to the door, bent over his desk. Off to the side Elsa could see the boy, his hands now empty of the scrap of paper. The lord advisor suddenly straightened, and walked across the room to loom over the child, his expression set in stone.

Without warning he lashed out, grabbing the boy by the shoulder and hurling him to the floor. The child fell with a loud cry that was quickly muffled as the man clamped his palm over the boy’s face. He pinned the small blonde’s arms with one ruthless hand, and leaned over to stare down at the child.

"You asked me… who he is."

Something moved across the floor, and Elsa swallowed heavily, pressing herself harder against the door, straining her eye to see. She gave a choked gasp of alarm, stuffing a fist in her mouth to muffle the noise. It was his shadow. It was rippling, crawling to devour the edges of the room, its edges curling like flames- like a banner torn to shreds in a violent storm. Elsa forced herself to keep watching, murmuring the Lord’s Prayer under her breath as the shadow drew closer to her hiding place.

The boy was still lying on the ground, seemingly oblivious to the dark that was threatening to consume him, his pale blue eyes wide as he stared up into the other’s face. “Y-yes… I did,” the child whispered, and gave a small cry of pain as the grip around his arms tightened.

The man sneered. “He is a plague. Pestilence that hinders me. Binds me to the will of anyone who knows him. Makes me weak. Makes me less than what I am. At first I thought he was a gift- something… to cherish. Given to me by someone I-…” He faltered, and for a fleeting instant his face looked pained, looked human again. But in a moment, the gentleness was gone as he snapped, “But I have since learned better. Such things only bring weakness. And now…” He sat back on his heels, still holding on tightly to the child’s arms, studying the young boy in front of him. Then he grinned, a slow and cruel thing that made Elsa want to scream and shut her eyes. But she gritted her teeth and forced herself to remain where she was, fervent prayers still falling from her lips in a steady and silent stream.

The man leaned forward, almost tenderly pressing his free hand against the boy’s cheek as he lowered his head to murmur in the child’s ear, “Now that you know… we must level the playing field. Listen closely, Kaiserreich. This name… this new name will be what undoes you.” His voice grew lower, softer, as he continued to whisper quiet words through curled lips until Elsa could no longer hear. She pressed her ear against the door, straining to listen.

Suddenly there was a loud cracking noise, and the boy cried out in a ragged and broken voice. Elsa felt her stomach give a feeble heave as she saw a thin piece of stark white bone protruding from the boy’s arm, just above the man’s iron grip.

"Yes," the other hissed, his red eyes mad and alive. "Every time you hear this name… every time it will remind you of what you are not. Of what you can never become. What we will never be. And this name… this simple word holds enough power to twist you. To make you forget the distance that separates us from them. To forget the futility of trying to reach for that simple spark of humanity that rests within you. Within us."

He straightened, pushing his hair out of his face and rising to his feet with one elegant motion, leaving the boy still lying on the floor. “For now, I am the only one who knows your other name,” he said calmly, smoothing out the wrinkles in his jacket. “You would do well to keep it this way.”

He turned his back to where Elsa was watching, as though pointedly ignoring the silently crying child and the small pool of blood that was staining the carpet red around his twisted arm. The lord waved one hand distractedly over his shoulder, and said in a rather bored voice, “Leave. And do not let me catch you crying again or I will have you suspended upside down in a vat of salt water until you never forget the taste of cowardice.”

The child angrily wiped at his face and stood, clutching his broken arm to his chest. Elsa wanted to burst into the room and sweep the blonde boy into her arms and take him far, far away until she could forget the madness she had just witnessed. But her trembling limbs would not obey her, and she could do nothing but helplessly watch the child leave the room, his small shoulders trembling slightly.

As soon as the boy was gone, the lord seemed to collapse in on himself, his shadow retreating until it reflected merely his own image. The air was no longer bitter with cold as he sank into his desk chair and buried his head in his hands. His back was still to Elsa, but she could see that he was cradling the old piece of parchment to his chest, murmuring deliriously to himself. She caught the edge of a name, but it was just noise, meaningless static in the otherwise still air.

After what seemed like an eternity, he set the paper down inside a drawer and took out a new sheet. He dipped his pen into the open pot of ink and pressed the nib to the clean parchment. Elsa watched him write out one single word, his hand shaking slightly as he went through the simple motions. He blotted the parchment, and studied it, the tips of his fingers tracing the smooth surface before folding the paper and placing it carefully inside his desk alongside the older one.

He stood and turned, making his way purposefully to where Elsa was crouched behind the door and she scurried away, falling back down on the floor to curl up in a pathetic ball. She heard the door open as he stepped inside, and she braced herself for a blow that never came.

"Fraulein… are you well?"

Elsa raised her head from the floor and looked into his worn face. He was avoiding her gaze, red eyes trained on the floor. She cautiously stood, gaining courage when he made no move towards her.

"No, my lord," she whispered quietly. "I’m afraid I am far from well."

He bit his lip, his face the very picture of uncertainty. “I… apologize,” he said stiffly. “If I could, I would have never wished for you to have heard-“

"Does it really matter whether I heard or not?" she asked incredulously, some righteous anger on behalf of the child making her voice ring with sudden sharpness against the plaster walls. "To do that to a child… to just a child…He was scared to death. As was I."

Suddenly he was laughing, a bitter and tired thing that made the hair on the back of her neck stand up. “You still believe him to be a mere child?” he asked with false mirth, a sardonic grin splitting his face in two. “What on earth do you imagine I am, then? I must confess, I find it a rather trying endeavor to attempt to wrap my mind around someone as hopelessly thick as you are, Fraulein.”

Elsa swallowed, suddenly unsure. “I… I don’t-…” She remembered his shadow, the way it spilled against the walls, and closed her eyes against the image, her heart wrenching with latent fear.

"A demon," she whispered, her hands gripping her skirts so tightly that her knuckles began to ache. "An unholy thing."

She heard him sigh, cool breath ghosting across her face as he said morosely, “I have been called such things before, although never by someone whose intelligence I had once praised. I am a trifle disappointed at the sheer lack of originality you possess.”

His footsteps sounded softly on the carpeted floor as he made his way back into the room, and Elsa heard the creak of his desk chair as it shifted under his weight, the rustle of papers being shuffled into neat and orderly piles.

"Leave, Fraulein," he commanded, the sound of a scratching pen masking his words. "There is much work I have left to accomplish."

Elsa opened her eyes and walked from the room with all the grace she could muster, skirting the pool of red marring the carpet, turning her face away from the diligent figure seated at his desk, his head bowed over ink splattered sheets of parchment. She made it halfway down the hallway before she broke into a run, almost lunging down the stairs to her room, bolting the door firmly behind her. She stood with her back against the door, solid and reassuring. She pressed her face into her hands, tears trickling slowly down her cheeks as she felt her heart shatter.

Outside, storm clouds raged above the manor.

On stormy days, Elsa never felt more alone.

On some days, Elsa felt nothing.

She sat with her back to the bath, listlessly watching a dank mist crawl across the manor gardens. The water was stone cold. Elsa pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders, her brown eyes dull and vacant as she absently counted the number of ravens perched outside the fastened window panes.

The door behind her creaked open, and she turned slowly as he walked into the room, his figure in shadow, his face worn and drawn. She immediately went back to her counting, and heard the dull thud of his coat hitting the stone floor. There was more rustling of clothing, along with some silent cursing. She could not bring herself to turn around again.

But then he spoke.

"Elsa…"

Her name. She stood and looked at him, letting her shawl drape over the back of her chair. Her hands flew up to cover her mouth.

He smiled painfully up at her through a mass of blood, his shirt crimson as it clung to him, dripping small drops of ruby red to rest on the floor. His hair was crusted with it, his fingers ragged splinters as he reached out towards her.

"Elsa. I am sorry to have to ask this of you, but I may require your assistance…"

The smell of blood made her want to retch, but she found herself moving forward, drawn to him by the quiet hum of his voice.

She reached out to undo his shirt, gingerly pushing it away from flayed skin. He winced slightly as the fabric pulled at bits of dried blood, and she found her eyes inexplicably prick with misery. But she worked in silence, stripping the shredded garments from his thin frame with detached precision, stepping back once he was fully undressed to allow him to lower himself into the bath.

The water turned a bright red the moment his skin touched the surface, and he hissed quietly as the it lapped against him. His arms were shaking.

Elsa gathered up his clothes, suppressing the urge to gag at the smell of gore, and set them aside to be burned. She turned around to check for any articles she may have missed, and caught a glimpse of his back as he leaned forward. She let out a soft cry and lurched away from the bath, tears spilling unbidden from her eyes.

He was a mass of twisted butchery. Strips of white broke the bloody surface, long wounds that spanned the entirety of his back, an endless map of crisscrossed flesh and bone. Blood was still seeping from the gaping lacerations, billowing into the water in little ribbons of color before dissipating, dying the bathwater an ever darker shade of red.

Distantly, Elsa could hear him calling for her as she stared on in horror. She finally mustered up the strength to respond, her voice choked and stricken.

"I don’t-…I don’t understand…"

He grew silent and stared into the water, letting his hands gently break the surface to rest atop his knees. He sighed quietly. “It is nothing more than what I deserve.”

"For what?" Elsa said, tears stinging her eyes. "What could you possibly…"

"I could break the arm of a child," he murmured indifferently, cupping some of the ruby red water in his hands. "And that child could be questioned. Answers could be given, and punishments rightly dealt." He closed his eyes. "As I said, it is nothing I have not earned a thousand times over. And a thousand times again. I can bear it, Fraulein. It is not the first time, nor I imagine will it be the last. So please, Elsa. Please stop crying."

She walked slowly to sit next to the bath, and took his scarred hand her in trembling one. She held it, and stifled her tears as best she could. They both remained motionless, the only sound breaking the silence the resolute dripping of blood into the water.

"Prussia…" she finally said, swallowing against the name. "That is… not merely a nickname, is it?"

He opened his eyes to stare at the ceiling, his face unreadable. “…No. It is not.”

She focused her gaze on his relatively uninjured hand. “And the blonde boy?”

Prussia shifted, wincing slightly. “If you have come this far on your own, I believe you are capable of taking the next step in solitude as well.”

She nodded slowly, still clutching desperately to him. “The… the rest of the staff,” she murmured in shocked disbelief, “how can they not know? Not know what… what you two…”

"It is like this in every house around the known world," Prussia said absently. "To most, we appear as nothing more than jumbled and confused versions of people they know. The face of their neighbor across the street. The voice of their old professor at his podium. The eyes of their own sons and daughters." Prussia turned his head to the side to stare at her, his own eyes so pale they were almost devoid of color. "But to some…" he said quietly, and reached out to brush her hair from her face. "To some… we are as we are. Those that linger around us for too long, those that allow themselves to listen to that small voice that warns them from the back of their mind…" He trailed off, and let his hand fall to rest against the edge of the bath.

Elsa lifted her head to stare outside the window at the gray mist. “Is this your doing as well?” she asked quietly.

He paused, before slowly shaking his head. “Not anymore,” he said bitterly. “It would seem I am no longer so intimately tied to this place…”

There was a small noise from the doorway, and Elsa turned her head to see. The blonde boy was standing at the entrance, his arm completely healed, a look of abject misery on his face. Elsa looked back at Prussia, but the pale man merely beckoned with his free hand.

The child immediately burst into the room, his face a mess of tears as he babbled incoherently, flinging himself at his brother, wrapping his arms around the bloody shoulders without a moment’s hesitation.

"I’m sorry I’m so sorry," he choked out, burying his face into Prussia’s neck. "Please forgive me I didn’t know Marta told the Kaiser and he-…he-" Germany hiccuped, tripping over his own voice. "Please… forgive me…," he murmured wretchedly, his small body trembling with grief.

Prussia’s eyes widened in either shock or pain, but he dislodged his fingers from Elsa’s to cautiously wrap his arms around his younger brother. He stared up helplessly at Elsa, and she gave a weak smile in spite of her own tears. “Hush, Germany,” she said softly, resting her hand on the small shoulders. “You will make yourself sick from crying so much.”

Germany sniffled, and nodded shortly, his blonde hair becoming stained with blood as he pressed up against his brother. Prussia just stared down at the young boy, absently running his hand through the flaxen strands, leaving even more streaks of crimson against the pale tendrils.

"I… What did I tell you about crying, Kaiserreich?" he said, his voice wavering slightly with false bravado. "As your advisor, I would hope that you actually take my advice to heart, lest I have to beat it into you."

The child sniffed, and tightened his grip around his brother’s shoulders. “Please don’t call me that…” he begged quietly, “I don’t like that name…It’s what he calls me and he made you hurt and I hate him I hate him!”

Prussia looked slightly taken aback by Germany’s vehement tone, and he furrowed his brow in thought. “What would you like me to call you, then?” he finally asked.

Germany hiccuped again as he said fiercely, “It has to be something only you get to call me. Something great. Like you. For forever.”

Prussia looked stricken for a moment, and he cautiously pulled the child closer to him. He did not speak, his eyes fluttering closed, the pale lashes flecked with red.

Elsa slowly rose to her feet and made her way towards the door. She knew when she was no longer needed.

Just before the door shut behind her, she heard Prussia quietly speak.

"Then… how about West?"

She saw Germany pull back slightly, heard his small voice ask in puzzlement, “Why?”

"Because," Prussia said softly, tilting up his brother’s chin to stare into his eyes. "It is the one name only I can ever call you."

The door clicked shut.

Elsa leaned against the far wall, and studied her hands.

She shuddered.

They were streaked with her nation’s blood.

On some days, Elsa wishes she did not understand.


	5. Chapter Two - The Soldier

Zweiter Kapitel – The Soldier

September 29, 1914

Dearest Mother,

I am writing to you from the training camp where I am stationed in _. I got the baumkuchen you sent, as well as the note from Adele. Every morning I go to the mailroom in hopes of hearing from you or Lenard, and whenever I do it is a like a cheerful piece of home waiting to greet me. Your letters are about the only comfort I have left. The other men in the camps don’t hear from their wives and family nearly as often as I hear from you, and so I believe they are beginning to become envious. I hope it does not lead to an altercation, though right now everyone is in the best of temper and so I cannot imagine such a thing happening. Perhaps later, once the excitement of seeing new places wears off and our packs grow heavy against our backs. But I suppose at that point I will be lucky to hear from you at all. I wish I could return home. How is Adele’s new grammar instructor treating her? I know she was nervous about transferring to a new school.

Sergeant K. made me stand out in the rain yesterday for four hours straight in full regalia. I think I’ve caught a cold. I never know what’s going to set the man off, but it seems nothing I do will please him. Today I failed to straighten my uniform to his satisfaction and so he railed on me. There have even been rumors that he’s yearning to ship me off to an ever further removed camp to complete my training before I head to the front. I would like to lie and say I am as caught up in the spirit of this as anyone, but I cannot fool you, Mother. You know me far too well.

All my love to you and to Adele.

Your son,

Edwyn

November 17, 1914

Dear Family,

I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to write back, but Sergeant K. did end up sending me off to some forsaken camp in the woods after all. I’ve only just settled in. At least I am rid of the man. If I never smell the foul stench of one of those tar drenched cigars again, it will be too soon.

I would tell you the name and location of my new camp, but the censors would just black it out again like they did with the last one. All I am able tell you is that we are in the woods, and it is very cold. We are always doing training exercises though, so it’s only at night that I feel at all chilled. Adele, you would love it here. It’s very peaceful- almost as though it is a space that has been lost in time. You’d hardly be able to tell there’s a war going on at all if it weren’t for our uniforms. Sorry for these vague descriptions. I suppose my work in compositions is still getting the better of me, even though my time in school feels like an entirely different life now.

However, the most curious part of our camp is the man in charge. When we were introduced, it was almost as if they forgot to tell us his name. They simply called him “Commander”, and left it at that. He is a very pale man, and talks to us almost incessantly. He’s a very harsh taskmaster, but I suppose that it is thanks to him that we will all survive out there. I cannot picture a man more skilled with a rifle than he is, and he has done his best to beat this ability into us - usually with the butt end of his own weapon.

What is most curious about the Commander however, besides his rather shrouded identity, are his eyes. I had never met anyone in Potsdam with red eyes before. But when one of the other men asked him about them, he just laughed and said they are that color because they make blood flow for the Reich. It is at moments like these that I begin to feel he is not altogether stable. But the feeling soon passes and we all laugh it off every time it does. The Commander loves to laugh – even though there are times when it is a cruel, sad thing. But we laugh with him, as best as we’re able. He invokes that in us; a feeling of camaraderie that may very well be what we need to win. Because when we’re with the Commander, none of us want to lose. None of us feel it is even a possibility.

It is a curious thing, to have denied this spirit for so long only to suddenly embrace it wholeheartedly. When I heard we were heading for the front in a fortnight, I could only feel elation. I imagine I am a far cry from the weeping child you said farewell to on the train, mother, but I hope to do you and the Reich proud.

I love and miss you all terribly. Send my regards to Lenard in your next letter, and tell him I may see him on the eastern front soon enough.

Your son,

Edwyn

December 5, 1914

Dear Mother,

I am still doing well. We have been traveling towards the front for about a week now, but have yet to encounter any real skirmishes. The Commander has been a blessing and a half. He knows this land like the back of his hand, and is able to lead us around ravines and other treacherous topography with little mishap.

There was a little incident the other day that has led to the Commander taking me under his wing. Although I know Lenard would tease me for this if he ever knew, I trust you and Adele to keep this a secret between yourselves.

We were hiking to meet the other garrison up further north when suddenly the Commander held up his hand. He has us trained like dogs, so at the slightest twitch of his wrist we respond. We all dropped to the ground in an instant, but he remained standing like he always does. Jakob thinks that the man either has a death wish, or that he’s deranged enough to believe that he is immune to rifles and mortars. Whatever the case, the Commander acts as though he is afraid of nothing, but judging from the scars on his arms and legs that we’ve all caught glimpses of, he has more reason than anyone to be wary of trying to trick Death again.

But regardless of the Commander’s cocky attitude towards God’s most feared servant, he remained standing, his hand resting casually on the Luger he keeps shoved in his belt. I heard a noise off to my left, and turned slightly to see. Suddenly, an elk dashed out in front of us and I am ashamed to say I let out a quiet noise of alarm. The rest of the garrison burst out laughing and the tension was gone in an instant. Even the Commander relaxed and merely chided me for my outburst, which he said, “would have made any soprano proud”.

However, that night after we had joined with the rest of the troops and had made camp, the Commander took me aside. I never like it when he stares at me – whether because of the abnormal nature of his coloring or because of his sheer brutality with firearms I have no idea. But he asked me my name, my age, which he had never bothered to do with any of us before. Normally he simply calls us by a number and a letter, which at first was rather distressing but we have since grown accustomed to. I told him, and he asked where I was from. When I said Potsdam, he actually smiled a bit. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him smile. Only laugh. He proceeded to inform me that as the smallest and obviously most flighty of our group, I was never to leave his side for fear of endangering the lot of us. I was of course rather embarrassed by this, but when I expressed my discomfort he merely laughed and said he had a soft spot for “runts”. So now the entire garrison has taken to calling me by that name ever since the Commander ordered one of them to “make the Runt fetch him coffee.” I’ve never been so humiliated.

The Commander thinks we will encounter Russian troops soon enough, and it seems the rest of the men have become infected with the same bloodlust he has towards these foreign men. I myself would not mind a bit more tranquility, though the Commander seems to think we have grown soft because of it and so made us sleep with only our thinnest bedrolls to toughen us up.

All my love to you and Adele.

Edwyn

January 13, 1915

Family,

I heard Lenard has made it home from the hospital. Please read this letter to him if you get the chance. Knowing that I am still in one piece might bring him some much-needed comfort.

We finally met up with the other garrison about three weeks ago, and it is only now that I have had time to settle down and write this letter. I do not wish to alarm you all, so I will merely say I am alive and well, and thanks to the Commander’s training am sufficiently equipped to deal with any Russian troops we come across. That is all I wish to say on the matter.

There has been little action for a few days now, and so we’ve all able to regroup and lick our wounds. Whenever we become bored, we need only look to the Commander for entertainment. He and Lieutenant H. are the worst of enemies. When we first met up with Lieutenant H.’s garrison, the man took one look at the Commander and instantly became white as a sheet. He has since recovered and uses every available opportunity to strut around the campsite with his chest puffed out, barking orders at everyone. But he still gives the Commander a wide berth. Once Lieutenant H. actually tried to give the man an order. The Commander rose to his feet and took a sip of the brackish water we’ve been reduced to drinking. He didn’t even say anything, just calmly drank his water and stared at the taller man, but all of us could see Lieutenant H. actually shaking before he muttered something about having to do the job himself and scurrying off. One of the infantry in our group gave a cheer at that – none of us are too fond of that damned man – but the Commander silenced him soon enough with one of his well placed glares. Ever since then though, the men from the Lieutenant’s garrison have avoided interacting with us. I even heard one of them whispering that we were all cursed for having been around the Commander so long. I had hoped that full-grown men would not sink to believing old wives tales, but constantly being on edge takes its toll on a mind in the most bizarre ways sometimes.

We take turns keeping guard at night. Five of us at a time. The Commander is always one of the five – which is probably how the rumors about him being a malicious abnormality got started. The man never seems to sleep. And he never seems to tire either, or to be injured for very long. Jakob calls it the devil’s luck, but claims he’s seen the Commander taking a kip inside one of the pup tents while we all make dinner. But at night he goes out of his way to make sure we stay awake, usually by talking at us in that arrogant tone of his. He makes up all sorts of things: faulty weather reports, weapons tricks, random facts about the area we’re in… But his favorite thing of all to talk about is history. The man can tell the most detailed stories that are so vivid you’d swear he was speaking from experience. When Schmidt asked him about it, the Commander said that he’d been an avid scholar of history before the war. None of us can picture him even holding a book though, as things that do not appeal to his base instincts seem incapable of holding his attentions. He once called books “elaborate firewood”, even though the eloquence with which he speaks hints towards a very learned background. The man is an enigma, that much is certain.

In particular the Commander has a penchant for the grisly, which given our current situation seems inappropriately apt. But once, and only once has he ever shown another emotion besodes wild enthusiasm for the subject. We were talking about the old kings, in particular Frederick William the First and his obsession with creating an army of giant men. The Commander, who normally relished talking about war heroes, had fallen oddly quiet. When Jakob asked him if he was silent because he held the man in such high regard, the Commander merely gave a derisive snort and said he hardly thought a man incapable of caring for his children should be so idolized. It caught us all off guard, and Schmidt – a man who can never keep his mouth shut even under mortar attack – gang pressed him into elaborating. The Commander hesitated, which of course shocked us all beyond words, but he finally did speak, in slow and rather halting tones. The story he told was not one I’d heard before.

Apparently, Frederick William’s eldest son tried to run from Prussia. From a life of military frugality and cruelty that he just was not made for. So William forced his son Fritz to watch as he commanded his most loyal servant to execute the boy’s best friend. None of us on the front are strangers to brutality, but it was in this that his majesty – the Commander sneered at the word – excelled. And he taught his servant everything he knew.

What’s curious to me is that while I do not remember the words in their entirety, I remember the pauses. The way the Commander’s mouth curled around certain words. Servant. Majesty. Prussia. I can only think that this story holds a particular significance for the man, but what that significance might be, I haven’t a clue.

I am sorry to ramble on like this. But now that we are so far removed from home, we’re lucky if we can send one letter a month, if that, so I have been carrying around this notebook with me for about a week now and scribbling down whatever comes to mind. But the messenger is here now, and so I am forced to cut myself off.

I miss you all terribly.

Edwyn

March 3, 1915

Adele,

I received your letter. I cannot believe that you have so little sense as to what this war actually means. You wrote of encouraging me to ‘make cold clay of those old Russians’ while in the same breath telling me of Lenard’s now permanent blindness. How can you be such a foolish child that you are incapable of seeing that one begets the other? You have not seen them lying there. Cold and shapeless and indistinguishable from our own people. You would scream, have nightmares, beg to return home if for even a moment you had to walk through these deserted and haunted villages. You forget that these men have families. Have sisters, brothers and parents as we do. People that care whether or not they catch a cold, whether or not they have enough to eat, whether they are safe or lying broken in a trench thanks to some poor fool’s lucky shot. You wish for victory to ‘cheer you up’. Frivolous sister of mine. You wish for something that cannot be. There is no victory in this. Not even for the winner.

Even as I am writing now, the Commander, a man so at ease with war that he almost needs to breathe chlorine gas to survive, is cursing this bloodshed. He just received word that his only brother has been gravely injured on the western front. As he was listening to the message, the Commander grew deathly pale. After sending the messenger away, he immediately hoisted his Mauser on his back and started walking west. Lieutenant H. asked him if he intended to march all the way to France, and the Commander merely snapped, “If that is where he is, then that is my destination.” It took ten of us to forcibly restrain him, and a good deal longer to talk him out of the idea of going.

If war can reduce a man as proud and as vicious as the Commander to cries of sorrow for his loved ones, then you should know it is a foul and cruel thing indeed. We do not fight to ‘cheer you’. We fight to save you from these miseries. We fight that our nation may flourish and become strong so we may never need fight again.

Remember this as you take your meals, little sister. As you play with your friends. As you go to bed. Dream no more these dark things of reducing men to clay and rubble beneath your feet.

Give mother and Lenard my regards.

Edwyn

April 26, 1915

Dear Mother,

Things have been calm lately after almost a month of constant bombardment. I am sorry I made Adele cry. The Commander read the draft of my letter I had saved and he thwacked me upside the head and told me to treat my little sibling better. I never would have pegged the Commander for one with a soft spot for children. Tell Adele that her big brother doesn’t hate her. Just that he’s very tired.

We are not suffering because of the blockade so much on this side as we are able to take what we need from the various abandoned villages and homes we stumble across. We never ask why they are abandoned. Nor do we ask why the Commander is always so low on ammunition, or where he goes in the middle of the night. We don’t ask anymore.

We’ve been in the same spot for about a week now. Reinforcements are supposedly coming to fortify our numbers, which have dwindled down to a mere twenty-five. Every morning the Commander claps me on the back and says, “Hey, Runt. Glad to see you made it through the night.” I never know what to say in response.

He’s been in a far better mood lately. His brother is one of the officers heading the reinforcements. Apparently the higher ups thought shipping an injured man to a “less active” front would be all the healing necessary to recover from a severe injury. Nonetheless, the Commander has been alternately running around in a flurry of activity and staying put to give us drills that will keep our minds focused.

It is hard to imagine the Commander having a brother. The man seems far too self contained. But we will be meeting up with the reinforcements in only a few weeks – probably before you even get this letter.

All my love,

Edwyn

May 3, 1915

The messenger did not arrive as scheduled, so I have a few more days to add to this letter before he does.

The reinforcement garrison arrived yesterday. At first we thought they were enemy troops since they were approaching from the wrong side - some of the men even had their rifles trained on them. But then the Commander started to smile. And it wasn’t even the sad, cold expression he once showed me, but something that felt genuine and warm and made all of us smile with the sheer surprise of it.

As the other garrison drew close, we could hear their voices – one in particular standing out above the rest. The Commander began running forward to meet them, suddenly breaking out into a war whoop none of us had ever heard before. It startled the men on the other side too, all except for one blonde man at the front of the group. He merely continued walking forward, favoring his right leg slightly, his eyes turned heavenward as though asking for guidance. A second later the Commander bowled him over with a vicious tackle, making the rest of the men leap out of the way to avoid being crushed as they both tumbled backwards. We could hear the Commander laughing rakishly even through the noise of the rest of the company approaching, and a deep baritone that must have been his brother chastising him.

The garrison was officially led by a Sergeant F., a very mousy looking man who merely stepped around the Commander and went straight to Lieutenant H. to report. One of the men in the new garrison set up his pup tent next to mine, and the first thing he said to us was, “So. You’ve got one too.”

We had no idea what he meant, and our bewilderment must have been obvious for after a moment he just gestured to where the Commander and his brother were still sitting on the sparse grass in the middle of the field. But all he said was, “They fight like rabid dogs, don’t they. Makes me sick,” before crawling inside his tent and ignoring us for the rest of the evening. Jakob and I just decided to pay him no mind. He was probably just more war weary than we are.

The Commander ended up staying out in that field with his brother all day, but he was too far away to really see what he was up to. When I asked the new Sergeant if I should bring the two of them any lunch, he gave me a funny look and told me I should mind my own business if I knew what was good for me. The men in this new group are strange. Maybe it is the stress of the western front that has gotten to them, but they seem even more shell-shocked than anyone could have guessed. None of them are badly injured- it is merely as though they are tired to their very souls. We decided to let them skip nightly guard duty to rest and they were all very grateful. Of course, this means that we all now have to keep doing double shifts. We were worried that the Commander would continue to shirk us even into the first round of the guard, but as always he came around at sunset to keep the first group company.

I was still up, and so sat around the fire with them for a bit to start this letter. After only a few minutes, the Commander sprang up and dragged his brother to join us. If it weren’t for the way they acted around each other, one would never guess they were related. The Commander’s brother is tall, blonde, and altogether healthier looking than the Commander is. We had all assumed from the way he talked that the Commander was the elder of the two, but looking at them sitting side by side, you would think the opposite to be true. We chatted for a bit, and the blonde seemed nice enough, if a bit too stern and foreboding at times, and every so often they would look at each other in a very odd way. Almost sizing the other up. Checking for weaknesses. But this could just be the soldier in me, unable to recognize brotherly affection for what it is after so many months entrenched in war.

I just thought of something else about the two that is a bit odd. The Commander never introduced his brother to us, and the Sergeant told us to simply call him the Officer. There is something strange about that garrison. If the messenger does not come again tomorrow, I will continue writing in this vein. If not, then all my love to you.

Edwyn

May 4, 1915

No messenger.

I woke up for my shift and went out of my tent as usual to head for my station. However, when I arrived, the Commander and his brother were the only two there. The Commander spotted me right away and waved me over. He introduced me, calling me Runt as usual in his fondly patronizing way, and his brother looked slightly pained. He actually scolded the Commander for “reducing a soldier’s identity to a mere nickname.” For a second I thought the Commander was going to belt him, but then he calmed down and muttered something about West and irony. But then he told me that he and his brother were taking care of this edge of camp, and motioned that I moved a bit further down. I was too tired to really argue so I just nodded and planted myself on a rocky outcrop. We’re supposed to do things in pairs, but I did not want to risk Jakob’s wrath. He snarls whenever we try and wake him. The man can sleep through anything.

Now I am trying to write by moonlight alone. It’s a full moon tonight, and the sky is exceptionally clear. I’m afraid of falling asleep, but if I strain my ears I can hear the Commander and his brother talking. It’s probably rude of me, but I’m going to try writing what they say in order to stay awake. I can always burn it in the morning – though I can’t imagine them talking about anything too serious. It is the Commander, after all.

You’re looking well enough. Thought you said that leg was going to hold you back, West.

He’s calling his brother ‘West’. I wonder if that’s a nickname he earned on the western front.

It still might. I don’t heal as fast as you do.

There’s a knack to it. Costs resources and so on, but you get the hang of it.

I don’t want it to cost anything. My people and their precious few materials are not just tools to be used, Gil

Watch your tongue.

It’s quiet. I wonder if that’s the Commander’s real name. If I turn my head to the left I can see them thanks to the dim glow of the fire. They’re sitting too close together to be natural. I wonder if they’re cold.

West. Sure you don’t want me to look at that?

The Commander sounds tired as well. He never sounds tired.

Stop being stubborn. You always get like this when you’re hurt. Now lie the hell down and let me help you.

You’re not obligated to anything anymore, Brother. Why are you even helping me? There’s nothing in it for you.

The fight’s enough for me, West. You should know that by now. Doesn’t matter who I’m killing for. It’s something I need. Something I crave. And you’re the only one who

I can’t believe how much he twisted you. You think that is all you’re worth to me? You think this is how I want you to

They’re fighting. The Commander is faster, but his brother is stronger. The blow sounds far too loud. Or the night is simply too quiet. I probably shouldn’t be writing this anymore, but I can’t fall asleep out here. And I can’t go back to my tent – not with them there. But no one has to see this. I’ll burn it in the morning.

So after all these years you finally decide to hit back. Good for you, West.

Brother… I’m so sor

If you apologize now, I swear I will never forgive you.

His brother still looks stricken. I thought he was an officer. He doesn’t really look old enough to be one.

Will you help bandage my leg, then?

Yes. I can do that much. Here? The western edge?

Yes. It used – don’t just poke at it like that. It used to be much worse. And I’m

I’m starting to be hungry all the time. No matter what I eat.

That will happen when little weaklings set up a blockade. You’ll live. I’ll see to that.

They’re still too close together. The Commander is bent over his brother’s leg, and there’s a nasty gash running up the outer thigh. He touches it gently. He never helps us. Only tosses us gauze and as much water as he can scrounge up.

That tight enough?

Tight enough? I can barely feel anything below my knee.

Perfect.

The Commander brings his brother’s hand to his lips. He’s smiling again. He likes to pick on those weaker than him sometimes.

I live to serve, my liege.

Stop joking like that. You know I don’t like it.

All right. No more jokes.

I’m serious. I’m not a child anymore.

I know, West. But you’re still mine. I still fight for you. This alone ha s chan g e d.

G il

May 15, 1915

Mother,

Last night, I awoke from a dream I can no longer remember. I awoke, and for a moment I thought that you were not real. But I have your letters. And Adele’s. And they are proof enough for now.

I cannot meet the Commander’s eyes. He still jokes around with the men, still yells at everyone when we’re clumsy or incompetent. But his voice is not for us anymore. I do not know if he ever really cared about our well being to begin with or if this has all just been some game to him.

The men from the reinforcement group are even farther gone than we had imagined. They visibly cringe whenever the Commander’s brother walks by. Lately, I have found myself doing the same. So once, I kept my back straight and forced myself to look at him. He actually stopped in his tracks and took notice of me. He asked me my name. He stared at me with a sort of desperate fascination, and asked over and over again if I were not intimidated by him. I lied and said that compared to his brother, I had little to fear from him. He actually laughed and smiled, and I even felt cheered despite myself. I had thought he might simply have an ego even larger than his brother’s, but he is actually a wonderful person. There is no logical reason I can find that would reduce all the men to just a quivering mass of bodies before him.

He hung about me for a bit that day. The Commander was in meetings and on the radio for the entire duration, so he must have been a little bit lonely. Sometimes the other men try and include him in activities – basic things like telling stories, tearing down and setting up camp – and he gladly joins in. But after a while the stories die around him, the men begin to look at him with awe struck faces that slowly turn to apprehension. Then fear. He senses this, I think, and so distances himself from them again until they recover their sensibilities. I imagine this is why he hangs about his brother almost constantly. It must weary the soul to be unable to form even a basic connection with these men – these men who should be closer than brothers to all of us.

So I in turn tried to stifle the slow worm of panic settling in my gut and just sat with him, asking him questions about his life. I had to ask if he and the Commander were actually related, and he looked thoughtful for a moment before simply saying, “In a way, we are. It’s closer than simply being relations. And yet… not.” He smiled wryly again and apologized for being unable to offer a better explanation. I just shook my head. It answered enough.

Reading back through these letters I have been carrying with me this past month, I find them more and more dominated by these two. But compared to everyone else here, they are the only ones who seem to still have some sort of indomitable will that let’s them stay up through all the night shifts. Lets them put themselves on the front lines, and take the risks not a one of us can bring ourselves to. They are the most courageous men I have ever encountered, and also the most fool hearty. Time and time again I find myself writing only about them.

I am still doing well, mother. I had a gash on my leg that became very badly infected, but when the Commander saw me gingerly tending to it, he pushed me down and immediately lanced the thing with a pocket knife before I even had time to scream with the pain. He just grinned wickedly at me, and told me I was lucky to have him around before tossing me a bandage. My leg is completely healed.

I miss you all terribly. When I return, I can’t imagine going back to university any time soon. I will stay put for months and months until I become a nuisance.

All my best to you, Adele and Lenard.

Your son,

Edwyn

June 8, 1915

Dearest Mother,

No messenger again today. The men are beginning to grow panicked. Without him, we are cut off completely. Without him, there is little we have to calm us. To reassure us that there is something else out there besides this.

There is something wrong in this camp. We’ve been under siege for six days now. The trenches are dug and we are hiding as best we can. But there’s something wrong. They’re finding us far too easily now. Before, the Commander was able to lead us around the smaller skirmishes, to know when and where the major battles would be so that we could go and do our part without having to suffer through an age of torment beforehand. Now things are different. It is as though there are a million signs all leading them here. Something is drawing close from the east. All the men can feel it. Even the Commander is anxious, but he prowls around his still injured brother like a vicious guard dog and either barks orders from a distance or flings himself with reckless abandon across enemy lines. He is a madman. I cannot rely on him any longer. Not after what I have seen him do. To his own brother, even. The man is sick. Vile.

But I’ve held my tongue. There are none who would believe me, anyway.

There’s been a cold snap, which is not unusual for this longitude. It’s coming from the East. It’s left all of us feeling weak and drawn too thin. We’re starting to huddle together. No one else seems to notice it, but it is as though we are converging on a spot that none of us know but we all long to reach. To protect. Jakob woke up in the middle of the night and threw himself on top of a grenade to shield the Commander’s brother. The thing turned out to be a dud – faulty Russian construction at its best – but the event has still left Jakob shaken. And me as well. Something is moving us against our conscious. Many would call me crazy, shell shocked or traumatized or any other legion of words they could apply to lock us away but it’s not just me. Jakob and Schmidt can feel it too. At night we talk, and we hear others talking. And the brothers. Always the brothers in the middle alone. Sitting together and speaking in languages no one else can understand. The Lieutenant and the Sergeant hover on the outskirts. But all they can do is draw their mouths into paper thin lines and refuse to answer our questions.

I must sound like a deranged man to you, mother, but I beg you to listen. Things are different now. Where we wake up in the morning is not where we laid our heads at night. We are faster now. My aim has always been a joke to the rest of the garrison but lately all of us shoot to kill. Every time without fail.

Something is moving us, mother. Even our dreams are no longer our own.

I beg of you, if ever you loved me, make them release me. Make them take me home. I don’t want this any more. People turning to clay and dust and piles of things crushed under feet. Red eyes in the sockets of every enemy I see now. Blue eyes in my fellow soldiers. The Reich the Reich is here and I have to protect it, mother. I have to, mother. We must, mother. From the East it comes, to the West we go.

Where is the messenger? I have so many letters to send.

Your son with love.

E.

July 22, 1915

Lenard,

You gave too much for your nation. I would murder him in cold blood had I the strength. But that would not bring back your sight. I’m sorry. Please be good to Adele. She looks up to you.

July 23, 1915

Adele,

If they find me, they will take me. But I know these notes will reach you. The Commander promised. He is not a man to break his word.

Be strong, my little sister. Like our father was, and like our mother is. Know that I loved you. Love you. Even now when I have lost most of what I was. I love you.

July 24, 1915

Mother.

I have killed the sons of many. I have burned their mothers and sisters. I have stolen from them. Shot them. Gassed them. Is this what you wanted for me when you said to follow in my father’s footsteps? To become a blind servant of my nation?

We move as one now. The lines between us are gone. I can no longer tell to whose mother I am writing. My own. Another soldier’s. Adele’s. Lenard’s.

The Commander’s.

He never speaks of his mother. I wonder if he has anyone who will miss him when he is gone.

He never cries for anyone. So different from his brother.

His brother, on whom his eyes and hands linger far too long

His brother, who feels too much our own cries for home, and can do nothing to soothe them. Nothing except fight. Kill the Winter from the East. Make him suffer in our place.

Mother.

We move as one now.

Mother.

What is my father’s name?

September 29, 1915

To the wife of the late Herr Diedrich:

It is my duty and honor to inform you that on the Thirtieth of July in this, the year Nineteen Hundred and Fifteen, your son Edwyn Diedrich fell protecting the Reich. He fought bravely, even when vastly outnumbered and outgunned. You should be proud to have born a son of such caliber. You and your sons have done your nation a great service.

Private Diedrich’s Commander wished to pass on his condolences, as well as his remorse that he was unable to bring your son safety home. The Commander also instructed me to inform you that it was his own brother your son died to protect, and that for this you have his sincere and eternal gratitude. The Commander is currently on leave in the hospital. Should you wish to contact him, he can be reached in Berlin until the twentieth of next month. He asked that I encourage you to visit him, as he has several of your son’s effects – mainly letters, as I understand it – and wishes to pass them personally on to you. However, as he is currently bed-ridden, he must impose upon you to come to Berlin. The address of the hospital at which he is stationed can be found in the attached note.

Again, Frau Diedrich, you have the gratitude of a nation to console you in your hour of grief. Should you feel the need to seek comfort, the Mothers and Wives of Soldiers group holds biweekly meetings, and they are always on the lookout for more members to help bring this war and the Reich to a glorious victory so that all our sons may be returned home.

Yours in Sympathy,

Sergeant Johan Herrman

Eighth Army

Twenty-first Battalion


	6. Chapter Three - The Rat

Dritten Kapitel – The Rat

There was a dead rat in the middle of the floor.

Tulio stopped in his tracks, set down his boots to look at it. He got down on his hands and knees, stocking feet stretched out behind him as he studied it. Or him, as it were.

"…Damn," Tulio whispered, addressing no one in particular. "Rat’s got some serious bal-"

"DE LUCA!"

Tulio started and immediately scrambled back against the wall, hiding behind a suit of… armor? Whatever it was. He held his breath and clutched his boots to his chest, squeezing his eyes shut as though this would somehow afford him some extra cover. The stonework floor rumbled with the distant thud of boots, tens of soldiers heading out for daily training in the mansion’s gardens. Slowly the ground stopped its quaking, and Tulio relaxed a bit until finally the dank halls were silent again. He let out a low sigh of relief and stretched his legs out in front of him, his heels reaching just shy of the dead rat.

"Why, Capitano,” Tulio muttered softly, glancing furtively down the hall and back at the dead rat. He shivered. “Why’d you bring us here…”

He sat still for a moment longer before resuming his trek down the hall. He brushed the dirt from his backside as he went, socked feet padding on the floor when suddenly the ground shook and there came the unpleasant squishing noise of a helpless rat carcass being trod underfoot and then a yank on his collar and-

"…Herr De Luca. Please stop screaming in my ear."

Tulio tried to wiggle free, muffled curses and threats spilling past his lips as the behemoth lowered him down and took a step back, running a hand over his slick blonde hair. Disgusting. Tulio immediately tried to flee again, but was stopped in his tracks with a sad and unmanly squawk as the blonde barked at him, “De Luca! Do you really want to be adding on to your training regimen by attempting to flee an officer?”

Tulio immediately stilled, and turned slightly to glare at the drill sergeant.

"You’re not my capitano,” he spat out, his German slightly rusty from petulant disuse. “I don’t have to listen to-“

"Your ‘capitano’ is the one who sent me here,” the sergeant said, his voice carrying a weary quality to it that only he seemed capable of exuding. He let go of Tulio’s collar as though it were as repulsive as the rat guts now ground into his floor. “Mein Gott,” the blonde muttered, turning on his heel and marching back down the hallway. “The things I do for that man… tracking down his wayward troops…”

Tulio fixed his collar, still glaring at the German’s back as he went. He didn’t bother putting on his boots, although he skirted the puddle of rat as he went, silently envying the thing’s ambivalence to the world around it.

"I’ll be joining you shortly, mio amico,” he muttered, giving the ground rat a rakish salute.

The rat’s one intact eye stared balefully at him. It was the warmest reception he’d received in three months.

The house was old. And huge. And that was all Tulio knew. When they’d arrived, his capitano had kept everything from them. Including where they were in relation to the rest of the world. In relation to the rest of the war. The rest of sanity outside of this depressingly Germanic place.

It was in a forest. A very, very old forest. But even for the age of the trees, the house seemed more ancient still. It was built in pieces, as though the owner couldn’t decide which architectural period he favored more than the others and so had decided, “What the hell’. Include them all.”

Tulio had explored the house as much as he could, every day delving further into the wood and stonework to escape boredom. And the sergeant.

The West wing of the house was the most modern. Almost boringly sterile in comparison to the rest, Tulio opted to let it alone. No good places to hide, anyway.

The middle felt rich. That was the best word he had for it. Rich and uncompromising. The library was in the middle section, but he’d only discovered it once and then never again. He speculated that the sergeant had hidden it from him somehow. Although how a man could hide an entire room was beyond him. Regardless, he’d stolen a brocade pillow from one of the opulent sitting rooms in a kind of silent, peevish counter-attack.

The pillow, unfortunately, provided little shelter from the sergeant’s ever-watchful gaze. A fact that Tulio bemoaned silently as he raced down the hall, heading towards the yet-unexplored East wing. It was the oldest part of the house. And the darkest. Where the rats were. Tulio had passed clumps of them already. Brown rats. Five of them. Black rats. Evil things. More of them still. Their little carcasses lined the walls. Stacked up like trophies.

"DE LUCA!"

Tulio redoubled his efforts, swerving around a corner and into a random corridor of damp stone. More rats. Piles of them. And then-

"Shit!" Tulio yelped, colliding with a dead end. He stumbled against a suit of armor so rusty it disintegrated in a moment into little brown flakes. Tulio inhaled some and then spent a good five minutes trying to cough the stuff out of his lungs. But then there came the sound of boots on the stone and he clamped a hand over his mouth and huddled in a corner. He could see a tall shadow on the floor, one lonely rat still twitching weakly half in and half out of the dark. He watched the rat, watched the shadow as it finally moved out of the gap in the wall. He could hear the sergeant pacing. Like a fucking Doberman.

With a muffed prayer Tulio glanced around the corridor he had thrown himself into. And there was a door. He blinked again just to double check, but it was clearly there. A metal door as rusty as the suit of armor. Embedded in the stone.

Tulio stared warily at the thing, but the boots were coming back, so in a split-second decision he lunged for the door. It squealed open and Tulio plunged into the dark, the door slamming shut behind him.

He pressed his back up against the cold metal, opening his mouth wide as he tried to breathe as silently as possible. The boots came. The boots investigated. And then… miraculously… the boots left.

Tulio was still as death a moment longer before he let out a loud sigh. He stared straight ahead into the dark, wondering where the hell he-

…Not dark. There was a thin, white line in the middle of the inky black. Tulio curiously reached out towards it, his fingers jerking away in shock as they encountered cloth. A curtain. He yanked it aside and then let out a loud squawk of surprise. There was a room beyond the curtain. Brightly lit. An elegant bed and desk and rugs strewn across the floor and bars on the intricate stained glass windows. But the stone walls were covered in that black spider mark that was everywhere in the far Western part of the house. And there was a man at the desk, his back to the door.

Tulio pressed himself backwards against the metal, his brown eyes darting around for cover before they settled again on the man. He hadn’t moved.

Tulio straightened a bit, worrying at his bottom lip. The man had gray hair. Maybe he was old and hard of heari-

"So."

Tulio let out a squeal and staggered into the curtain, yanking the entire swath of fabric down to the ground with him. He cursed violently as he struggled to detangle himself, finally managing to shove the wretched canvas aside.

The figure had turned around in his chair during the epic battle of man versus curtain, and to Tulio’s surprise he appeared young. Elegant silver eyebrows were raised to his hairline, and his red eyes were glinting a bit with inquisitiveness. The man’s thin mouth curled up into a smirk.

"So." The man’s nose wrinkled as though he smelled something unpleasant. "My brother has resorted to sending Italians to check up on me. How… demeaning.”

Tulio picked himself up off the floor, spotting a cage on the man’s desk with a brown rat inside. The rat looked very much alive, unlike its brothers and sisters in the corridor. He scowled at the pale man sitting at the desk for a moment before biting out in halting German, “I am no checking on anything.”

The man blanched. “Good God man. If you’re going to be allowed inside my house I would hope you’d either try and speak my language with a bit more finesse or not at all. Don’t just spit it out.”

Tulio snorted, taking a cautious step into the room, the black spider symbols on the wall making him anxious. “You didn’t bother speakin’ our language when you came bargin’ into our country,” he muttered, switching to Italian.

"…But of course. It has been ages since your language was valued in high society, whereas not so long ago the greatest philosophers and doctors were speaking mine."

Tulio’s eyes widened in surprise, but then his face twisted into its usual scowl. “…Your Italian sounds ancient,” he muttered. “No one says ‘whereas’ anymore.”

The man just laced his fingers underneath his chin and smirked. “Forgive me. I must admit my familiarity with the language stems from a far more… religious background. Although I have long since thrown that aside…” He turned in his chair and waved a hand over his shoulder. “You may leave now, my smelly little friend.”

Tulio sneered. “No German tells me what to do. What are you doin’ in here anyway? Who the hell are you?”

The man glanced over his shoulder. “…Ah. He did not tell you?”

Tulio rolled his eyes. “Obviously not or I wouldn’t be askin’, stupido.”

The man was quiet for a moment before turning around to face his desk again. There came a sharp snapping noise, and then the man stood up, tossing the cage, rat and all, to the floor. He straightened his uniform and ran a hand through his hair.

"…I am the master of this house." His lips curled into a self-deprecating sneer. "Or was, at any rate…"

"You mean someone owns this shitty labyrinth?” Tulio glanced around the small room. “Whatever. What’re you doin’ in here, then?”

The man’s eyes flickered to the right, scrutinizing Tulio before he gave an elegant shrug. “I am being detained here.”

Tulio was curious despite himself, even as he warily eyed the albino. “Detained for doin’ what?”

The man’s lips curled up in an amused smile. “Why, my dear fellow. Because I am a horrible, horrible influence to those that still worship me as they should.” He tilted his head to the side. “Also because I tried to explode my boss through the stratosphere. A pity his desk was made of oak and not balsa wood or this war would have been ours by now.”

Tulio just stared for a moment before slowly backing away. “Obviously you’re locked up ‘cause you’re a fuckin’ loony,” he muttered.

"Quite possibly," the man amiably agreed, walking into a back room and emerging a moment later with another shiny cage with a rat inside. He set it down on his desk and then turned to stare curiously at Tulio again. "And what did you say your name was again?"

"I didn’t," Tulio snapped, taking another step backwards, fingers searching for the door.

The albino rolled his eyes and then lowered himself with a feline-like grace back into his chair. “Oh come now. I haven’t done anything to you yet and already you’re withholding information.” He paused. “Although that in and of itself might provide this afternoon’s entertainment. Rats are so hopelessly limited, after all. I believe I can now say, ‘Stop I’ll tell you anything you want to know’ in about fifteen different languages of squeaking.” He laughed and absently picked up a scalpel off his desk, twirling it between his long fingers. “So. Your name, if you please.”

Tulio’s fingers encountered nothing but stone and no metal door, no matter how frantically he searched. The scalpel shone right in his eyes with every pass of the blade through the man’s fingers, and in desperation he blurted out, “T-Tulio De Luca.”

The man seemed interested. The scalpel stopped spinning. “De Luca, is it?” he said slowly in apparent amusement. “So your name is the one my brother enjoys yelling down the halls.”

Brother…

Tulio let out a quiet moan of despair. “Your brother is the drill sergeant?”

The man gave an elegant shrug. “He is whatever he wants to be. I suppose the rank of General can get tiresome after a while. And he always feels so guilty with every poor decision he makes.” Pale lips curled up in a sneer. “Hardly surprising. Bruderlein was mainly programmed to follow orders, after all.”

Tulio redoubled his efforts to try and find the door, but again his fingers were met with only cool stone. Finally he turned around, even though having his back to the albino made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. There was a ghost of a breath next to his ear, and a moment later the pale man murmured, “Only the rats can leave here, De Luca.” Pale fingers brushed against his own tan ones pressed up against the wall, the skeletal touch making Tulio shiver as though a spider had crawled across them. He jerked away, trying to shove the albino away from him, but his movements barely caused a current in the air. Tulio clutched his hand to his chest, still able to feel the spider’s legs against his flesh as he spat out as brazenly as he could, “I-I’ve given you my name. It’s only polite if you-“

"I’m not telling you my name," the albino said smoothly, sitting back down at his desk. He picked up another cage and pulled out a brown rat. The thing was writhing in the pale grip, letting out an eerie shriek as it tried to escape. The man made a tutting noise and then picked up a scalpel, smoothly inserting it in the rat’s neck. "That sound can really get to you," he said amiably, smiling blithely at Tulio. "But their vocal chords are small."

Tulio stared at the rat, now shrieking and writing in mute. “…All those in the hallway… you put them there?”

"I was merely returning them," the albino said, setting the rat down on the desk to begin methodically cutting into it. "They thrive in this wing of the house, you see. So many bodies for them to make their little homes in."

Tulio swallowed heavily and stared at the blank wall behind him, which was now as covered in the black spider mark as the rest of the room. “S-So… that’s how you get your rocks off then?” he asked, voice shaking like a frightened child’s.

"One of the ways," the albino said absently, making an irritated noise and brushing the rat off his desk. It landed with a thud on the floor. The pale man stood and turned to Tulio, his red eyes keen. He smiled. "But I suppose now I have an even more interesting distraction…" He took a few steps towards the Italian, fingers like thin branches reaching out to brush against Tulio’s chin. Tulio took a few steps back, but the stone wall was there to keep him in place. The albino’s smile widened, but after a moment he stepped away, crossing his arms over his hollow chest.

"You may call me… Klaus." The albino tilted his head to the side. "Or I suppose that name has gone slightly out of vogue since the late nineteenth century. Ah, well. It will have to do."

Tulio stared warily at the man. “…So you’re not…” His brown eyes shifted to stare at the rat upon the floor, his ears ringing with Klaus’s laughter.

"Oh no, my good friend. I shouldn’t dispose of you so readily. You are the first living thing that can hold any semblance of conversation to stumble through here in months." Klaus moved to clap the Italian on the shoulder, his tone much more cheerful. "And I take good care of my playthings. Well." He laughed again. "Until they begin to bore me."

Tulio shivered at the touch, cold radiating from the man’s hand, freezing his blood and making him feel as though if he were to fall to his knees he’d shatter into a million pieces, scatter into every corner of the room and melt there with the rats. To be trodden underfoot.

He nodded. He said quietly, “I-I understand.”

Klaus radiated approval, clapped him on the back and gave an order he no longer had the will to refuse.

"Be my eyes and ears."

The mortar between the stones slowly turned to sand, a small rectangle of black amidst the gray.

"Tell me of his every move."

Cracks in the stone became hinges, pushing their way up through the dust.

"Whose?"

The fingers on Tulio’s shoulder tightened. And Tulio knew.

A metal lock broke through the surface of the stone, a cross like the ones the Germans wore on their uniforms. But still the black spider shape huddled poised in the middle.

"Tell my Bruderlein that his brother loves him very much."

The lock turned and the stones began to move. The black spiders on the wall moved away.

Fingers tightened.

"And that when I am released, my love for him will be tested to its fullest."

Tulio cried out as he was shoved through the hole in the wall, stumbling against something cold and hard. It was pitch black and he had to blink slowly, spots dancing before his eyes. He picked himself up, knees cut and bruised, the palms of his hands burning from the fall, and turned around.

There was only stone.

Tulio check again to make sure. Slim fingers dug into cement, trying to pry the stones apart. To find the door to prove to himself that he wasn’t—

There was a rat on the floor.

Tulio watched it shudder, watched it die, and then took the small piece of parchment out of its mouth. He unrolled it, brown eyes scanning the archaic script.

One less tenant for your body, should you speak of this to anyone. But he has many, many brothers and sisters, all eager for a warm place to live.

Tulio dropped the parchment and ran, socked feet making barely a sound on the floor. Out of the East wing and back into the sun, the voice still ringing in his head.

Be my eyes and ears, Tulio. Until I am free again.

The rats had made it into the center part of the house. Every morning as the soldiers went out to the mansion grounds to train, more little carcasses were trodden underfoot; and every day the maids had to mop the blood and gristle off the pristine marble floor.

The Italian soldiers thought it an omen. They talked amongst themselves in their part of the mansion every night.

The German soldiers looked to the Sergeant, and then wisely said nothing, although every so often a pair of blue or green eyes would flick towards the right. Towards the East.

Tulio was back in the ranks, his capitano was pleased with him. Even the Sergeant’s usual complaints had grown few and far between thanks to Tulio’s sudden devotion to training. But Tulio could no longer speak. He could only be eyes and ears. See and hear.

Some of the time the control was not so absolute, and he could taste and feel and talk again, laugh with his fellow soldiers and with his capitano about stupid things that the Germans found vulgar and crass. As beneath them as the rats.

He would catch himself staring at the Sergeant. His eyes glazed over as he catalogued the man’s every move. How long he spent training with his men. How long he spent polishing his boots to a mirror-like sheen. How long he spent staring at the capitano. How long he spent in the capitano’s room, alone with him. Hours on end, at night when only the rats moved and Tulio lay crouched in the hallway, wishing he were anything but eyes and ears, to not have to see this, to not have to hear this thing that was the epitome of intimacy and violence all in one.

It had been two weeks since he’d gotten lost in the East, and one morning Tulio awoke to find a rat next to his bed, a small piece of paper stuffed down its throat. He pulled it out, wiped it off, and read.

Report.

The single word, such a strong command that Tulio could not even spare the time to get dressed. He moved silently down the hall, the cold stone against his feet making him practically run. The house was dark, the only light from the thin slits cut into the stone as windows.

The door was where it had been. A simple rusty thing nestled between the stones. Tulio opened it and stepped inside, blinking at the sudden harsh light. There were more black spiders on the walls. Piled atop each other, vying for dominance against the pale stone.

The albino was at his desk again. A hint of a smile played around his thin lips. Tulio cleared his throat and shifted restlessly. His eyes followed the spider marks.

"How are you feeling?"

Tulio started at the voice, his lips curling into a rebellious sneer. But all he could say was a quiet, “Fine.”

Klaus stood, long limbs and perfect angles as he turned to face the Italian. “No problems, I trust? My brother is not… bothering you, is he?”

Tulio shook his head. “He’s too surprised I’m doin’ my trainin’,” he muttered, his eyes falling to the stonework floor.

The albino laughed and a moment later patted Tulio’s head. Like one would a dog’s. “Very good. I was right in thinking you could be put to use.”

Tulio scowled and ducked his head. “I’m not just a tool for you to use,” he muttered in a rare moment of control.

Klaus stared down at Tulio for a moment before he let out a quiet chuckle. “Of course that is all you are,” he said in amusement. “That is all you soldiers were born to be. Tools of your country.” His nose wrinkled. “Although your country is piss-poor at managing you all. Lets you run about as you please. Not entirely surprising considering your country shows a lack of discipline that makes one doubt the veracity of Rome.”

Tulio remained silent, not allowed to respond.

Klaus studied the Italian and then let out a little sigh. “You were far more entertaining when you were not acting like a mindless drone.” And suddenly Tulio could speak again.

"Well that’s not my fault, is it?" he muttered petulantly, turning around to pick off one of the spider marks on the wall. He peeled it away but there was only another one underneath. Wrought into the stone.

He could feel Klaus watching him curiously, like a scientist studying a rat in a maze. “…If those marks could be removed, do you not think I would have already had them all down and been free from here?”

Tulio glanced over his shoulder at the albino, confusion on his face. “So you don’t… want them here? But these flags are flyin’ outside your house.”

Klaus let out a low growl and muttered in a low and deadly voice, “No. They are what is keeping me trapped in here.” In a cage next to his desk, a rat exploded in a small shower of guts. The albino didn’t seem to notice or care. After a moment longer of glaring at the marks, he straightened his back and ran his hand through his hair.

"So, my eyes and ears. I called you here to report. You’d best make good on that command."

Tulio reluctantly turned around, shuffling from side to side. “Report… what the hell am I even supposed to report on? You know, you’re awfully vague for someone who’s hidin’ out in a secret back room like that guy in the Wizard of O-“

"On the war, De Luca," Klaus said, his voice a nearly perfect replica of his brother’s weary tone.

Tulio flushed a bit and then looked away. “We… none of us know about the war. We haven’t seen action in months. And there’s no damn radio in this God-forsaken house.”

Klaus gave him a strange look. “…But of course there is. In the far Western wing. You cannot be expecting to find a radio back here in the Middle Ages.”

Tulio stared at the albino for a moment, finally realizing that the man was completely and utterly mad. “…Well then. Anythin’… else?” he asked weakly.

Klaus’s red eyes narrowed. “My brother. What-… How is he?”

Tulio relaxed a bit. An easy question. “Fine. Enjoys yellin’ way too much to be healthy, but… it’s okay. Mornin’s after he spends the night with the capitano he doesn’t yell that much.” He blanched. “Must be worn out from all the… fightin’ they do in there. If you catch my drift.”

The room went completely still, even the dust moats and candle flames freezing as though caught in an elaborate photograph. The albino’s back was turned to Tulio, but his shoulders were the only thing moving. Trembling slightly.

"…What did you say."

Tulio swallowed heavily and glanced around the room. The spider marks were beginning to peel off the walls as though being burned from the inside. “…I… your brother and… and my capitano. They… they’re very… close.”

Klaus whirled around, his red eyes almost swallowed up by the black of his pupils. But his voice was still calm. “Bruderlein is sleeping with him. Is that was you believe?”

Tulio couldn’t stop the small snort that escaped, even though he clamped his hands over his mouth and nose the moment after. He was silent for a bit before he nodded, his voice muffled by his hands as he mumbled, “Don’t just believe. Everyone knows.”

Klaus became as perfectly still as the room, his face a blank mask, his eyes wide but unseeing.

Tulio cautiously lowered his hands, his eyes darting back and forth in mild terror. The room was still. With a quick lunge he scrambled for the door, blunted fingernails digging into the stone as he sought to escape. Like a trapped rat.

The room behind him began to stir, small jerks and trembles in the air the made the spider marks grow smaller, curl in on themselves until suddenly, everything burst into life. The shockwave sent Tulio crashing against the wall. His head smacked against the stone, and all he knew was black.

The bed had looked plush. But underneath its soft appearance was only hard rock. An extension of the wall. Tulio rolled over, blinking into the dimly lit room where the albino was sitting at his desk with his head in his hands. Small drops of water rolled down his forearms, landing with a quiet plinking noise on the wooden surface. So strange was it to see such a display of misery affixed to the man that it took Tulio a good five minutes to realize that he was crying.

Tulio sat up, brushing aside the sheets made of pebbles and mortar and stood. He blinked his eyes and the albino was standing in front of him, no trace of weakness on his face.

"I no longer need you as ears and eyes, De Luca."

Tulio could do nothing but nod.

The man pressed something into his hand. A small knife.

"You must be my arms and legs now. Do you understand?"

Another nod.

"One small prick from this dagger will make even my brother fall. How this will affect the war, I do not know nor do I care. Stab him if you must to bring him down, and then let the rats do their work."

Tulio nodded again, tucking the dagger and sheath into his pocket. He blinked as a free man for a moment, and only the sheer force of curiosity made him ask, “Why are you so sad?”

The albino was still for a moment before he smiled. “You are mistaken. I possess no such menial emotion.”

The door clawed its way out of the stonework, and with a light shove Tulio was through, back into the real world where morning was just beginning to dawn. But he could feel the dagger in his pocket, and it felt heavier out here. As though it were made of the solid iron of war. Bullets and mortars that could bring a nation to its knees.

Tulio straightened his back and began the walk back to his quarters, legs moving on their own, mind locked tight inside its own room of stone.

Tulio slept with the knife under his pillow. There were nights when he would wake up pressing the blade to his own throat and he would have to wrestle it away. The blade would dull and he would slip it under his pillow again before abandoning sleep altogether.

It was some force other than the albino that was making him move. There was a war inside his head. One that would make him duck just a bit too late during training so that his face would get smashed in by a rifle butt. One that would make him bite his tongue so hard it would bleed whenever someone asked where the capitano and the Sergeant were during the night.

The knife always weighed heavily on his mind. He’d studied the blade, trying to discern what made it special. It had no markings. No special hilt. Yet he could feel there was something different about it. It hurt to hold. His lungs would seize up and his body would go cold and the knife would grow so red-hot it felt like it was searing the meat off his bones. But he could never let go.

Nor could he seem to catch the Sergeant off guard. Wherever he went he was surrounded by German troops, or flanked by his capitano. Days went by without the Sergeant being alone at all. But one night as Tulio lay hiding in the corridors just outside his capitano's room, he saw his opportunity. The Sergeant left hours earlier than he usually did, speaking in harsh words to the small Italian man as he slammed the door shut. The blonde rested against the wall, a haggard look on his face as he spoke quietly to himself.

There was no one else around.

Tulio crept forward, his eyes fixed on the Sergeant’s downturned face. The knife felt unusually cool in his hand, and it was trembling, almost as though it were transfixed with its own bloodlust.

Tulio was careful. Every time the Sergeant stopped talking he stilled his feet, and the dagger would grow even more restless. He stopped only a meter away from the German, his whole body trembling with anticipation. He must have made a small sound because suddenly the Sergeant straightened up and turned around, barking out, “Who’s there?”

Tulio pressed himself against the shadowed wall, his brown eyes barely visible in the dim light. But the Sergeant still took a step towards him, blue eyes glowing eerily and it must have been that otherworldly presence that made Tulio suddenly lunge forward and plunge the dagger straight into the man’s chest.

The Sergeant let out a bellow of pain and Tulio found himself on the floor in an instant, his jaw aching and vision swimming before him. But a moment later the Sergeant had joined him, blue eyes rolled back so that only the whites were visible, his fingers twitching in an unsettling way. Tulio stared at the dagger, buried three inches into the man’s chest, and yet-

The Sergeant groaned, making Tulio jump back with a hiss of surprise. He wasn’t… dead. Tulio stared at the Sergeant with wide eyes, and then let out a childish yelp as something brushed against his foot. He glanced down and was relieved to see it was only a rat. The animal moved towards the fallen Sergeant, crawling up onto his body and heading straight for the wound. It began sniffing around, its tail lashing furiously.

Tulio stood up to watch the animal, feeling cold and sick because even though the Sergeant wasn’t dead yet there was no way he could survive the night. He was supposed to be a soldier. Killing was in his blood. It was his duty. What he’d been made for.

The rat turned to stare at him, and Tulio froze as he felt even more small bodies brushing past him, and in a moment the Sergeant’s body was swarming with the animals. And then… Tulio’s eyes widened. They were moving the body. The Sergeant was still breathing, the noise weak and raspy with fluid. But his body was slowly being born down the hall, the rats silently carrying their precious cargo towards the Eastern wing, Tulio following quietly behind, tears streaming down his face as he whispered prayers of contrition.

The rats left the body in front of the door. One of them nipped at Tulio’s heel as it scurried off, telling him to finish the delivery. Tulio swallowed heavily and managed to open the door. He grabbed the Sergeant’s leg, almost letting go with a squeak of surprise as the blonde moved weakly. But somehow he managed to get himself under control enough to pull the body inside, closing the door firmly behind him.

The albino was standing in the middle of his room, ruby eyes glowing as he watched Tulio struggle. “Leave him there,” he said quietly, taking a few steps forward and resting one booted foot atop the hilt of the dagger protruding from his brother’s chest. The Sergeant made a soft noise of pain, but Klaus’s expression remained impassive. He moved to sit atop his brother’s chest, slim fingers toying with the dagger. He glanced up at Tulio. “You have done well.”

Tulio just nodded, his back pressed up against the wall. “It… it was nothing,” he said quietly. “Just… please… let me go?”

"You still have a role to play, Italian. Be patient," the albino said quietly, wrapping his hand around the dagger’s hilt. With a quick jerk he yanked the blade free, and the Sergeant lurched upwards, gasping for air before he collapsed back against the floor, breathing heavily. Blue eyes darted around the room, wide and fearful like a wild animal’s before they finally fixed on the albino’s face. His expression turned to one of horror, and a single word escaped past his lips.

"Bruder…"

The albino stood, slamming his foot against the gaping hole in his brother’s chest, a vicious sneer on his face. The Sergeant cried out with pain, but the albino just laughed.

"Does it hurt terribly, West?"

He ground his boot into the wound, watching his brother’s pain-twisted expression with a look of inquisitiveness.

"It’s… curious. Hurting you used to bring me so much pain as well. But now… now I feel nothing."

The Sergeant’s breathing was slowing, limbs twitching weakly. The albino’s face betrayed no emotion other than mild interest.

"Your entire being has as much worth to me now as one of the rats."

He finally pulled his foot away, walking back towards his desk, leaving a trail of single blood-soaked footprints.

The Sergeant managed to prop himself up slightly, shaky and pale. He swallowed heavily. “B-Bruder. It… it wasn’t me who locked you away in he-“

"Shut up!"

The albino suddenly yelled, his red eyes wide with rage. “You let them forget about me! You went against everything I taught you, everything that we were supposed to hold dear! You left me to rot in here while you sought the comfort of a fucking Italian to keep my spot warm! What-” He stopped himself, his chest heaving and red eyes wild.

The Sergeant looked sick. “I… Bruder, he doesn’t… Feliciano is the one who wanted…”

Tulio’s eyes widened as he tried to press himself even more into the corner, away from the two men. Feliciano. Was that… the capitano's name? He'd always assumed the man didn't have a name. It made him seem too… real.

The albino had grown still. Finally he spoke, his voice very quiet. “You… know Italy’s name.”

The Sergeant looked terrified. He nodded.

The albino swallowed heavily. “And does he know yours?”

"Bruder… I-"

"Does he know?" the albino yelled, his eyes wide and murderous. "Just answer the goddamn question, West!"

The Sergeant was silent for a long time. “He does.”

Tulio immediately knew that was the wrong answer. He began searching for the door again, watching the two brother’s warily.

Klaus was very, very still. The Sergeant’s breathing still sounded raspy and wet with blood.

"So. I am truly alone now."

Klaus glanced up at Tulio. “You may go, Italian. I have the answers I wanted.”

"Bruder, please… He means nothing to me. I’m just… lone-"

"I would leave now, De Luca," Klaus- not Klaus not Klaus anymore with his eyes glowing and the very walls bending to his will – said mildly. His entire body, his emotions, blank. A canvas that once housed a beautiful painting, dipped in bleach and left to turn white in the sun.

Tulio found the cross in the door, his fingers feeling like they were made of lead because they weren’t moving fast enough. He heard the small clinking sound of the albino picking up his scalpel.

"Now, De Luca."

The door opened and Tulio was thrown out, just as the screams began. The door thudded shut, the noise snuffed out with it, a heavy silence in its wake. But Tulio could feel the house shake, could hear windows exploding and rocks crumbling to dust as the Sergeant paid for whatever nameless crime he had committed against the master of the house. Tulio ran, stumbling over cracks in the floor, wooden beams that had been twisted loose from their centuries-old home. With each step his memory became less and less, as all around him the house destroyed itself, caught in the violent throes of grief.

Three trucks waited outside for their cargo of soldiers. The house was gray and silent, each piece reluctantly back in place. Soldiers still whispered amongst themselves as to the Sergeant’s sudden hospitalization. There were talks of assassins, conspiracy theories about the water, the food, even the damn flowers that were now wilting in the mansion’s once-elaborate grounds.

Tulio was the last to finish packing. There were none who would talk to him anymore. Not even his capitano, whose eyes were red from crying, from a sudden and complete loneliness they could all feel as though it were their own.

Tulio wrapped up his socks into neat little balls of cloth, placing them next to each other like fallen soldiers in his knapsack. He pulled the bag shut and stood, staring around the room that had kept them safe for months. He left, shutting the door behind him.

The opulent part of the house was still in shambles, pictures of the great kings of past nations torn to shreds. All except one that had been lovingly tucked away in the corner, the only part of the house where no dust seemed to fall. Tulio stopped in the entryway, compelled for some reason to look to the East. His knapsack fell to the floor as he started walking again, his boots gleaming with polish, taking him easily into the dark wing. He had never been to this part of the house, but it clearly had a pest control problem. His boot ground another rat carcass into the stone. He didn’t flinch.

Tulio turned down a small corridor and stopped in front of a gaping hole in the wall. A hidden room. He stepped inside, blinking owlishly in the dim light. Everything was covered in dust, the desk, the bed, the rugs, works of centuries old. Like an abandoned church, the place had a sense of the serene, of the forgotten and ancient. Tulio glanced up at the pure-white stone walls, at the stained glass window shining brilliantly in the dark. He made his way over to the desk, fingers brushing against the dust-covered surface, pausing when they encountered something new. A letter. Not a single speck of dust on it.

Tulio picked up the paper and unfolded it, staring curiously at the archaic script.

I thank you for my freedom, De Luca.

Tulio grew cold. His name.

I thank you for my freedom, De Luca. You will never see me, nor my brother, again. Go home, and continue to forget. You are one of the lucky ones. For some of us, memories are not so easily undone.

-“Klaus”

Tulio stared at the piece of paper, and then found himself inexplicably folding it up inside his jacket. He turned to leave, but was stopped by a small squeaking noise. He glanced down to see that his boot was resting firmly on a albino rat’s tail. The thing was not struggling, but stared up at him with empty red eyes. Tulio bent down and picked the rat up, staring back at the creature.

With a quick snap, he broke its neck, letting the lifeless thing fall to the floor to be eaten away at by its brothers and sisters.

Tulio left, a new door swinging silently shut behind him.


	7. Chapter Four - The Pen

Viertes Kapitel – The Pen

Most comforting sight in the world is flowers next to a grave. Stones on top.

The world’s an uncertain place. Pretty much only got two things set in stone: that you’re born somewhere, and that you die somewhere. Can’t help the house you were born in, the country you grew up loving, who your heart pins itself on. Can’t help much of anything, really. All you can really do is hope that once you’ve got a pillow made of rock above your head that some soul is kind enough and remembers you enough to leave some flowers or a little pebble. Something to anchor your name, your being back to that world you once rested your feet upon.

I’m not the first person to point this out – probably cause everyone realizes it sooner or later as they get old. All us humans got the same red blood in our veins, after all. Same fears etched somewhere inside. Fear in the brain of being seen as worthless. Fear in the gut of dying. Fear in the heart of being betrayed. Humanity’s three big terrors. Least as far as I’m concerned.

Sometimes, though, you can chose when you’re going to die. Pretty much the only real control you got over the big picture stuff. The papers wrote about the Jap pilots that flew their planes right into shit. You gotta wonder if they were grateful for that. Did they love their country that much that just being allowed to pull the trigger themselves was gift enough? Kinda seems a hard mental state to grasp, for most, but that’s what all us are doing out here, really. Uncle Sam says jump, we say “How many bullets can we take for you while we’re up there, Sammy boy?” And he just laughs and wrinkles those blue eyes of his and says with that pretty mouth I’ll take the bullets for all of us.

'Course, that were true, Davidson and Burgs and Miller and Smith wouldn't have their own little pine boxes now. Their own pillows made of stone. Uncle Sam don't seem to care. He just yells about vendettas and screams at the sky and then goes off to plaster recruitment posters on the houses of every boy and girl.

Wonder what that Kraut Sam said to keep his boys moving.

(~*~)

"Mac. How ‘bout a light?"

James glanced up from his notebook, pencil twitching in his fingers.

"Don’t you got any matches left? Just gave you a box last week."

"Nah. Used the last one so I wouldn’t fall down the fuckin’ stairs." Stephen gestured to the staircase, barely visible in the dim light of the wine cellar.

James let out a little sigh and tossed his last box at the other soldier. “Here. Don’t say I never did nothin’ for you.”

Stephen just grinned as he lit up his cig, glancing towards the two cells. “They move at all today?”

James shook his head and snorted. “Not so much as breathed. Same’s the whole time they been here. Would’ve gone in there and made sure they weren’t dead if Uncle hadn’t given the order to stay away.”

Stephen took a long drag of his cigarette. “Fuckin’ creepy. Think all Germans play possum after surrenderin’?”

"I know they don’t. Shot enough of so called ‘surrenderers’ to know they can still scream, at least." James shrugged. "Maybe the younger ones don’t got the act down so well as Grandpa and Junior here."

Stephen let out a snort of laughter. The noise echoed oddly around the emptied cellar, ringing in the dried-up caskets of wine.

"Well. Maybe they’ll speak up before we gotta move ‘em. When’s Uncle Jonesy – er, the General comin’ back?"

James shrugged again and went back to his diary. “Probably ‘fore the week’s out. Can’t really say any more specific than that. Got the whole country to look out for, after all. And he don’t move so well ever since the Japs gave him that limp.”

Stephen nodded but then fell quiet for a long time. Suddenly he grabbed his rifle and headed over to one of the cells. He crouched down in front of the iron bars and slid the gun through a gap, jabbing the prone figure in the middle of the cage.

The pale thing didn’t so much as budge.

Stephen snorted and sat back in his heels, scratching at his forehead with dirty, blunted fingernails. “Huh. Guess I gotta go get the bayonet.”

"Leave it alone. You’re like a kid in a zoo," James muttered. "Gotta poke all the animals just to see which ones’ll bite your fingers off."

"Hey, all I wanna know is why we gotta stay behind and guard these two ‘stead of just shootin’ ‘em like we done to every other Kraut in this fucked up city. That too much to ask?"

James glanced at the far cage, Junior’s bright blonde hair easily visible. “They might’ve been close to that Fury guy. Not our place to judge.”

Stephen just let out a heavy sigh and stood, taking off his helmet to scratch at his blonde hair. Lice was going around again. Everyone was always scratching something. “Well. ‘Long as we’re stuck here, I’m gonna go see if I can grab us a couple beers. Only thing these Krauts seem good at makin’ ‘sides guns and people to shoot ‘em at.”

James just let out a little ‘mm’ noise and went back to writing. Stephen clapped him on the shoulder as he passed.

"Hey. Kinda relieved I got stuck with you ‘stead of Johnson or another one of them talkative assholes." Stephen grinned, his teeth bright white in the darkness. "You’re not bad for an old ape man." He laughed, the noise too bright for the damp cellar and tar-black words, and then hopped up the stairs, yelling back down, "Keep an eye on ‘em! Krauts’re almost as tricky as their slanty-eyed allies!"

James stared down at his notebook, his pencil hovering over the same word. The cellar grew miserably quiet, the only noise the soft dripping of one of the caskets they hadn’t been able to find. James sometimes passed the hours trying to guess what color wine it was and how old. White. Fifty years. Red. Two hundred and twenty. The house was ancient, after all. Old as Uncle, probably. Maybe even older. Kid was still kind of wet behind the ears.

James lifted his head to check on the cells and let out a startled yelp. Prisoner One was pressed up flush against the bars of his cell, red eyes fixed directly on him and teeth bared in a feral grin.

James released the death grip on his pencil and let out a shaky breath. He stared at Prisoner One, but the pale thing remained completely still, not even blinking in the dim light.

James shifted uneasily and tried to go back to his writing, but he could feel Grandpa’s – no, Prisoner One’s. Best stop these nicknames before they got out of hand – eyes on him, watching him write.

"You did not hit him. Impressive self restraint."

James managed to keep from yelling this time, but his head still snapped back too fast. He rubbed at his neck, grimacing from the whiplash as he turned to face the cage again. Prisoner One looked pleased – if the stone-still hyena grin were anything to go by.

James managed to keep his voice steady. “Not interested in talkin’ to you,” he muttered and forcibly turned back to his diary. He could feel the thing’s amusement practically oozing out between the bars like some fetid sludge, and he fought the urge not to bolt upstairs.

"Come now. It has been a long, long time since I had an opportunity to practice my English conversation skills."

The thing’s pleasant voice made the scribbled words in James’ diary waver. He stared at the page, trying to discern what he’d written. “Can’t you practice with the other prisoner? Interactions are supposed to be kept down to a minimum,” he muttered, erasing a useless line as the cold of the cellar pressed in on him.

Prisoner One let out a bark of derisive laughter. “Him? Oh no. I am afraid the only words I have to say to him do not bear repeating in polite company. Sad, though, that this is the companionship I have been reduced to. A broken windup-toy of a brother and an old Moor writing in his journal.”

James’ long fingers twitched and he slowly raised his eyes to stare at the albino. Were it not for the dark and the alone he would have halted the conversation as he’d been ordered. But Stephen was a lazy man, and three hours wait was a long time with only the drip of wine to keep one company.

"You two related?"

White teeth showed in the dark. “Flesh of my flesh. My darling baby brother. It is common among my kind to take a smaller one as your sibling and raise them in your image. To humanize it in the hopes that similar emotions will follow. It is a lot easier to relate to you fragile, porcelain things when we force ourselves to confront those effervescent spikes of chemicals and lay claim to some of our own. An elegant act, but for those like me, it is an act nonetheless.”

"You think we’re all little porcelain dolls?" James asked quietly, his slight suspicions confirmed. ‘My kind’ indeed. "What’s that make you and Uncle, then?"

Red eyes widened in surprise. “You know-… ah. Of course. That fool of a landmass probably enjoys spreading around all our coveted secrets.” Prisoner One fell silent for a moment before he laughed quietly and murmured, “China shops, I suppose. To house all of you and keep you safe from rampaging bulls, or break you ourselves as we see fit. An inelegant analogy but one that sadly fits. You do shatter so easily. Porcelain flakes skittering across our floors as you fight for tiny spaces on our shelves.”

"You don’t think you’re all fragile just as bad?" James asked, leaning forward a bit to see the prisoner better. The dim light twisted the pale face, made it almost seem sad and human; red eyes concerned when they looked through the bars at the lump in the next-door cell. Tricks of the light and the damp. "When everythin’ inside a china shop’s broke, what reason does a man got to go in? If we’re breakable, then it’s just a matter of time. And from the talks upstairs, seems like yours has run out, Grandpa. Shop’s gonna be closed, soon."

There came a little gnashing of teeth, and the pale figure retreated deeper into its cell. “You take the analogy too far, Herr James,” Prisoner One muttered, his voice no longer a smooth, even keel. “I have heard idle threats before and withstood them all. What does one lowly soldier know? I was awake and laughing when Lot’s wife turned to salt. I will exist to see your dearest Uncle equally rebuked.”

James shook his head and sat back again, tapping his pencil against his notebook in time with the steady drip. A long silence stretched between them, cloying and oddly unwelcome now that it had made its presence known. James cleared his throat and reached out to brush it aside as best he could. The drip remained. Stubborn as ever.

"…You think that’s a red or a white that’s layin’ waste to our sanity?"

Prisoner One shifted, his long nails scratching against the stone.

A more human voice answered. Hesitant at taking the outstretched words into its fold.

"Red, I shouldn’t wonder. It feels like a red. Maybe French…"

James chuckled and stretched his long legs out in front of him. “Partial to white myself. The missus makes a mean chicken pot pie… adds a splash of white wine to fancy it up a bit. Makes all the difference.”

"Oh please. Do go on about your darling wife and the home made goodies she cooks for you," Prisoner One drawled, his voice dropping further and further from the lofty, affected tone he’d first used, softening into that of a bored, young man. "Does she bake you—oh damn it all, what are they called… chocolate chip cookies?"

“‘Course. With a glass of milk… no better way to welcome the kids home from school.”

A shifting noise from the cell, and a moment later red eyes peered curiously across the divide. “You have children?”

James nodded and fished about in his pocket, pulling out his treasure. He unfolded it and held it out towards the prisoner. “Two of ‘em. James Junior and Sara.”

Prisoner One wrinkled his eyes as he stared at the scrap of film. “…And that is your wife? Rather buxom thing, isn’t she.”

"Mm. Guess so." James pulled the picture back, staring at it one last time before he folded it up and stuck it in his pocket.

"Do you miss-"

Grandpa stopped talking as Junior shifted in his cell. The pale thing immediately moved to press against the bars separating them, its arm reaching through the gap, skeletal fingers straining to try and touch. The light from one of the dying lamps illuminated the panicked, thin smile that pulled at the corners of its mouth. Dry lips parted with fettered, tentative hope.

"Ah… Lieb’ Brüderlein…"

The rest was a quiet, foreign jumble of words, cacophonous in their speed, illimitable in number, wretchedly desperate in their tone. Sky blue eyes slowly opened for a moment, staring through the iron bars at the lithe fingers before dismissing them. The herculean body shifted just a bit to pull away, curling in on itself as the sky faded into thin slits, and then closed completely.

The prisoner remained pressed up against the iron, arm still straining and words pouring from its split mouth, voice shaking like the last leaf clinging to a wintered branch.

"Bitte, Brüderlein… lass mich nicht allein…"

The second cell remained unmoved.

James watched as the albino slowly retreated, pulling its hands away from the bars, its lips closing and eyes hardening. The humanity drained from its face, and when it settled in its normal position, the arrogant king had returned.

It smiled pleasantly at James. “You know, of course, what my darling brother would have done to your children, were you living in our house.”

James frowned a bit and said softly, “Good thing we weren’t, then. He okay?”

Prisoner One laughed. “Oh yes! He is fine, fine of course. Still blaming me for his squishy demise, I suppose. Thinking he can hurt me with his silence when really it is just a blessing in a very thinly-veiled disguise. And it is a good thing indeed…”

Ruby eyes twinkled with bitter amusement. “Of course, your precious Uncle is just as vicious about these sorts of things as we are, isn’t he?” The prisoner’s eyes were wide and bright as they pressed up against the bars, red irises locked on James’ face. “Just as vicious and just as cruel as my baby brother. Chains around wrists and twisted rope in trees instead of pretty little showers. Cousins of my little brother’s precious doctrine, if you will.”

The prisoner laughed brightly and reached out a hand, fingers curling around the damp air as he purred softly. “Tell me, Herr James. How does it feel to have the nation you’d die for walk around wearing a face like my brother’s? So perfect and shining white and blonde while you and your kind huddle in leaky tenements. Soot-covered statues holding up the grand cathedral they toiled away to build…”

James remained still as the prisoner grinned and cackled like a Halloween Jack-o-Lantern, the slight twitching of his fingers the only outward sign he’d heard. He finally chuckled quietly and opened to a new page in his book, his pencil scratching against the paper as he softly spoke.

"Think you’re the first one to point that out to me? Think you’re all original for tellin’ me my nation, my Uncle works hard every day to remind me I don’t really belong? That British guy, Sir Arthur. He done the same thing last week. Last century. When he went walkin’ into a new part of his house and told all them Indian folks they gotta bow down and call him Sir all respectful like. That’s what you lot do. Put up little signs to let people from other houses know they aren’t welcome in yours. They can come in if they like, but your faces won’t change for them." He shrugged. "It rankles deep in my bones. Sets my nerves all on fire, but at this point I’ve seen what we porcelain bein’s can do for one another. We all bleed red when we break each other open and spill our guts out on some city street. Just takes a war to remind some folks of that, I guess. Includin’ people like your Fury. Wherever he is. Bet his crushed bones are the same as mine, couple years down the road."

The prisoner’s hand fell slightly, fingers pressing against one another. It finally snorted dismissively and took a little step away from the bars, sitting down in the very middle of his cell.

"You’re rather eloquent for an ex-slave."

"And you’re rather arrogant for someone inside four steel walls, so how ‘bout we both just shove this aside and go back to talkin’ about good stuff." James sat down on the floor and leaned forward to poke a rolled-up piece of paper through the bars of the cell. "Here. Drew you a picture to hopefully get that stick outta your ass a bit. Like you better when you act like one of us."

Prisoner One’s lips pressed together in a thin line, but after an age of deliberation he reached forward and took the little scrap, unfolding it. He blinked in surprise and stared up at James with a humanized look of wonder on his face.

"This-…"

James just shrugged. “I got a picture of my family to keep me company. Figured I’d make one for you, seein’ as you two are fightin’ or whatever it is you types do. Warrin’ with each other, I guess.”

The prisoner smoothed the little portrait against his leg and then sniffed quietly. “Well. You got my brother’s face shape entirely wrong.” He stuck the sheet through the bars again and moved a bit closer, gesturing for James to move as well. After a moment, the American did, sitting cautiously in front of the cell.

The prisoner made an impatient noise and gestured at the scrap. “You made his face round. It’s rather angular, actually. Very pronounced cheekbones like mine, and thinner lips…”

James frowned slightly and took out his pencil, sketching as best he could in the dim light.

Prisoner One made a pleased noise. “Better… much better. He’s handsomer than that, though. You’ve made him look like Marlene Dietrich.”

James snorted and fixed a few more lines. “You got your brother’s face memorized? That normal for you types?”

The prisoner tapped his fingertips against the bars, the rhythm awkward and uncertain. “…I do not know if it is for the others. It is simply the face I have seen the most and the one that is dearest to me, in the slight capacity I have to feel such things. After decades together it would be more surprising if I did not have it memorized, no? We are all the other has…” His fingers stilled. “…Or were. Are once more, I suppose, although he seems determined to march forward alone. As much as he can march in these tiny bird boxes you have us in.” The prisoner fell quiet for a long time before his hesitant voice sounded again. “For whatever reason though… if he were able to replicate my face with the same kind of fastidiousness… it would make me… happy.”

James risked a glance up from his work, his fingers stilling at the look of near-vulnerability on the thing’s human face. He cleared his throat and pushed the drawing through a hole in the bars again.

"He probably can. If you’re as close as you say."

The prisoner was still for a long time before he slowly took the drawing, staring at it with mild surprise on his face. “…Your sketch sees quite a bit that others either miss or willingly overlook,” he said softly, pressing skeletal fingers against the leaden lines where the two figures rested against one another, limbs entwined. “Although I doubt we have ever looked this happy when embracing. Affairs of state tend to whittle those kinds of bursts of idiocy to mere scraps after the first twenty years or so.”

James packed away his things and glanced at the bench, but made no move to shift back to his rightful position. “Happiness from a loved one is the most bittersweet there is. Shame you all can’t taste it. Might be less of this shit if you could.”

A quiet chuckle and a rustling of paper, and the prisoner pulled away from the bars. “Really. I count us lucky,” he said, glancing off to the side. “Becoming intimate with another, be they human or fellow… shop… is a messy affair. Resentment thrives among those who have lived to see every clichéd story play out. There is trust, betrayal, revenge, inevitable loss. Ask Miss d’Arc when you meet her burning soul if her love was truly worth it.”

"That’s true of all love, though. Someone’s gonna hurt eventually." James leaned back against the bench, nudging the bars with his boot. "Just gotta question if it’s worth it. Some folks think it is, others not."

The prisoner hummed quietly and sat back, his red eyes clearly still fixed on the portrait in his hands of two brothers pretending to love. The steady dripping of the wine returned, and in between the drops James heard its soft voice.

"Thank you, Herr James. This is the first kindness a fragile thing like yourself has offered me in a very long time."

James chuckled and took off his helmet, running his fingers through matted, unkempt hair. “Don’t mention it. End of the war means exhaustion, and exhaustion means petty acts of kindness. Tryin’ to erase the bad that’s been done, I guess. I saw those camps you and your brother made. I helped clean them out. And it killed me. Struck me stone-cold dead what you all did. ‘Specially the ones like me. Doin’ a thing like that to their own brothers. Their own kin. Almost hurts me more knowin’ you all have the capacity for emotion. Easier if you’re all just laughin’ jesters like Uncle or snobby prissy boys like the Sir. Can’t judge you as harsh as I do them, I guess, since we’re all just the same trash to you. What’s another genocide among an endless list of human atrocities.”

The prisoner remained silent, and after a moment James glanced up to see the albino still staring at the picture, its face as still as a statue’s. James frowned and leaned back against the bench, remaining quiet until the loud thud of boots on old wooden steps jarred him into action. He quickly got back to his post atop the bench again, pulling his helmet back on and resuming position.

The steady drip was all that sounded.

(~*~)

The prisoner lay down an ace, a wolfish grin on his face.

"Well. That rounds out my wins nicely, wouldn’t you say?"

James snorted and threw down his useless cards. “You got beginner’s luck through and through.”

The prisoner laughed and shook his head. “Oh, James. You have been saying that for weeks now, and it was not even true to begin with.” He held out his hand, wiggling his fingers expectantly. “Pay up.”

James grunted quietly but then finally fished around in his pocket for the prize. He rested the half-eaten bar of chocolate in the prisoner’s hand, and in a moment it disappeared into the cell amidst insane cackling.

James tapped his cigarette ash on the floor and picked up his notebook, making another notch. “Can’t believe it. I’m losin’ to a rookie,” he muttered, watching as the prisoner picked up the cards and shuffled them.

"A rookie no more, it would seem. Shouldn’t that title go to the one who is losing the most?"

"If I didn’t know better, I’d say one of us is gettin’ pretty damn cocky for-"

James fell silent as the cellar door opened, and in the blink of an eye the cards were gone. Heavy boots sounded on the stairs, and James cautiously moved to sit on his bench again, notebook open on his lap and an easy expression on his face.

Stephen’s voice finally sounded, and a moment later the man rounded the corner.

"Evenin’, James."

James inclined his head slightly, not bothering to look up from his sketch. “Evenin’.”

The other soldier stopped in front of the second cage, staring at the still figure within before taking a step towards Cage One. James’ eyes shifted a bit to catch a glimpse of the smug, amused smile on his fellow soldier’s face before they returned to the page.

"What d’you want, Stephen?"

The younger man hummed and squatted down in front of Cage One, staring at the prisoner.

"Uncle sent me."

The sound of pencil to paper faded for a moment until James’ deep voice murmured a quiet, “That so.”

"Mmhm. Damn right. And three guesses as to why."

"Someone’s off on a confectionary run and he needs more guards down here to hide his gluttonous shame. The hell am I supposed to know. Been down here for what feels like eons."

"And that’s the problem."

Stephen stood, resting his back to the cell bars and smirking down at James.

"Word on the surface level is you’ve made a friend down here. Besides that little notebook of yours."

James snorted. “They don’t know shit. Friends. No one here but me and the prisoners. And I’m pretty sure that one’s a mute now.”

"Oh yes. Possibly." Stephen’s smirk turned a bit dark. "But the other one ain’t." He leaned forward, his eyes shining a bit as he murmured in a sing-song voice, "Me an’ the boys… we heard you two talkin’. Gabbin’ like a couple girls."

James fought to keep his expression neutral, and he calmly glanced up at his fellow soldier. “That right.”

"It’s right, but it ain’t all of it." Stephen turned back around, grabbing his rifle and prodding the still form inside the cage. "See, Uncle don’t really take kindly to people fraternizin’ with these sorts. You forgot the camps? ‘Cause Uncle, he kinda thinks you have. Startin’ to see the humanity in these things. Maybe makin’ a couple friends, lettin’ your tongue get nice and loose and all sorts of stuff comes spillin’ past those thick lips of yours." Stephen laughed. “‘Course, I told him there was no way a Kraut’d ever make friends with a ni-"

Stephen’s voice was cut off as a pale blur yanked the rifle further inside the cage, slamming the soldier up against the bars. Before James could so much as blink, the other soldier was screaming, and a moment later he kicked himself away from the bars, cradling his hand to his chest. Two fingers of his leather glove were missing, the flesh underneath stained with blood. Prisoner One was pressed up against the bars, his lips smeared red and a lazy smile on his face. He crooked a finger in Stephen’s direction, his voice a soft purr as he murmured, “That leather is rather bothersome, isn’t it. Come a bit closer again and we’ll see how dull my teeth have really gotten.”

Stephen took another step backwards, his lanky frame visibly shaking.

"Fuckin’Kraut," he hissed, his shredded fingers trembling against his chest, blood dripping down his uniform. He suddenly grabbed his gun off the floor, aiming the barrel directly at the prisoner’s head.

The albino merely bared blood-stained teeth in a wild grin.

James quickly pushed himself off of the bench and shoved Stephen aside. The rifle clattered to the floor, and a moment later James had the other man by the collar, pushing him up against the stone wall.

"Temper nearly lost you your fingers, boy. You wanna see what happens when Uncle comes back to find you murdered one of his prisoners?"

Stephen snarled, struggling in the other man’s grip. “It ain’t murder! They’re evil sons of bitches, every last one of ‘em! They deserve to be put down like dogs! Like what they did to all those people!”

"Shootin’ an unarmed man in a cell’s murder, plain and simple!" James snapped, shoving Stephen up against the wall. "You got that through your goddamn head? The war’s long over! Have some fuckin’ integrity or I swear to Almighty God above I will beat it into you!"

Stephen made a choking noise as he stared at the other soldier, the violent, harsh light slowly leaving his eyes. He suddenly slumped down as though his strings had been cut, and a moment later James released him, letting him sink down to the floor. He crouched down next to the other man and examined the fingers. There were a couple deep puncture wounds, a few scrapes. Nothing time and disinfectant wouldn’t heal.

He sat back and glanced over his shoulder at the prisoner, who was staring at them with rapt amusement on his bloodied face.

James felt his stomach turn, but he ignored the thing for the time being and picked Stephen up, pushing him towards the stairs.

"Go get those stitched up. And make sure to tell them to send someone who isn’t unhinged down here," he muttered. Stephen slowly made his way to the stairs, casting wary glances over his shoulder every now and then before he finally turned the corner. A moment later the cellar door shut, and James sat down on the bench, his head in his hands.

It was a long time before he spoke.

"What you attack him for."

He could feel the amusement and confusion in the thing’s voice.

"He was disrespecting an acquaintance. And you are far better than that word."

James lifted his head, his eyes narrowed into slits. “Better?”

The prisoner shrugged, picking its teeth and spitting out bits of leather and flesh. “Yes. Better. You have risen above the primitive instincts that tend to take hold of your race. You speak with educated diction, most of the time, and are well versed in philosophy and art. You are a noble exception, and I disliked having him group you in with the rest.”

James threaded his fingers together, staring pointedly at the albino. “How many of ‘my race’ you met, exactly, that you can judge that? You think everyone but me’s just a lowly, mud-slappin’ animal?”

The prisoner fixed him with a cool glare. “Please refrain from putting words in my mouth, Herr James. I said nothing of the sort. It was a compliment. Your kind has been beaten down for centuries. Is it a crime for me to note excellence paramount to the bedraggled norm?”

James ran his fingers through his hair, the last of the adrenaline leaving his system. “Not a crime, no. But pretty damn rude, assumin’ I’m some sorta magical exception. I’m just like any other man, just got a bit luckier bein’ born into the house I was. A man can’t help what skin he’s born into, or how much money his daddy make. Unsurprisin’ though that you seem incapable of realizin’ that. It ain’t a sin to be born, is it? So why do you and your brother lock people up and kill ‘em for it.”

The albino stared through the bars, slowly rubbing the blood off his lips with the back of a dirty sleeve. Finally he smiled.

"Shall we get back to our card game, Herr James? Before your Uncle sends another imbecile down here to waste our time."

James let out a little sigh and sat down on the floor again, staring at the cards.

"Guess you’re too old to change, huh."

"Persecution is in our blood. The division and distinction of your kind has been what defines us since our creation," the prisoner said lightly, dealing out the cards. "From the moment the line was drawn in the sand, the little figurines on one side began othering the rest. Picking out perceived flaws and differences and building upon them until they became akin to a natural truth, rather than an artificial one. It has been a rather amusing process to watch, yet tedious in its inevitable repetition."

James picked up his cards, a new cigarette dangling from his lips.

"That your way of sayin’ we always goin’ to hate each other?"

The prisoner chuckled and lay down a bloodied ace.

"No, Herr James. That is me saying that, much like love, hate and persecution are parts of the human condition that we have helped to foster by our existence alone. A sorry state for mankind, but it is what keeps you alive and thriving."

A clean two of spades.

"You guys hate each other too?"

A small hum.

"Oh yes. Very much at times."

A puff of smoke in the air.

"You ever really love each other?"

A quiet laugh, a shuffling of cards, and the game reset itself in silence.

(~*~)

James moved his candle a bit deeper into the dark of the barrel, peering through the tiny hole in the wood. He chuckled quietly. “Well I’ll be damned…”

He pulled back and called down the pitch-black hallway, “It is a red!”

Prisoner One’s boisterous laugh came floating back. “And you had the gall to doubt me! Peasant that you are. I knew it was a red!”

"What ‘peasant’? You had a fifty-fifty shot! I call shenanigans," James shouted back, his deep voice making the stones rattle with disapproval. He set his candle aside next to the lantern and grabbed the leaky barrel, straining for a moment to upright the thing. It finally settled down properly with a groan of aged oak and hoops that no longer snugly fit. James breathed a sigh of relief and then slowly tugged the thing down the hallway, squinting to see in the dark.

"Gonna need some verbal guidance! Don’t wanna run into nothin’!"

"Yes, yes… it’s a straight shot. A trained monkey could do it easily enough, so I hardly see why it should cause you any trouble."

"A trained monkey’s not a thirty one year old man who’s sorely missin’ his readin’ glasses. You always gotta bitch and harp about everythin’."

"Bitch?" Prisoner One’s voice was affronted, yet amused. "I daresay that’s the first time anyone has been so bold as to accuse me of such a thing. Usually I’m told just the opposite, that I come off as rather militant in my speech and-"

"Dammit!"

Prisoner One burst out laughing. “Ah yes! The bench. So sorry. Its position plumb slipped my mind.”

James rubbed a bruised shin and shoved the wine barrel at Prisoner One’s cage before heading back to retrieve his lantern. “‘Slipped my mind’ my ass. You been starin’ at that bench for weeks now.” The prisoner’s quiet laughter pressed at his back.

"I have stared at much worse for much longer in my moments of madness. A bench is hardly something to take notice of."

James returned with the light and set it next to the prisoner’s cage, rolling his eyes slightly. “Poetic, but that don’t fix my bruised leg. How you plan to atone for that?”

The albino hummed quietly and leaned forward, propping his chin up on one of the bars as he smiled at the soldier. “I thought partaking in a drink with you was atonement already for when I stole your pocketwatch and hid it from you. Can we simply lump the two together as we relish in the conquering of our mutual drippy nemesis?”

James grabbed his rifle and made sure it was unloaded. “Suppose that’ll do. What’ll you listen to, though, without this broken thing t’keep you company?” He slammed the butt of the rifle into the top, sending slivers of oak flying.

"Careful!" the prisoner barked, his voice half drowned in laughter. "I don’t want to be swallowing splinters. I have a very delicate throat.”

"Please. None of you’s delicate. That pretty face don’t fool me." James ripped off the broken lid and tossed it aside, grabbing two pewter mugs off of the bench and dipping them in. "Damn. Barely enough for a couple glasses…" He held one of the mugs out towards the bars, and the prisoner’s shrunken arms snaked through to grab it, his red eyes shining with anticipation. He brought the mug up close, but then paused with the rim pressed against the small opening.

"…James."

"Mm?"

"How the devil am I to drink this."

James snorted and fished around in his pocket before pulling out a couple paper straws and setting them in the prisoner’s mug. “Here. This oughta help.”

He leaned against the mostly empty barrel, sipping at his wine and watching the prisoner struggle with the straws before finally bringing them to his lips. The albino drank in silence for a moment before pulling away, coughing slightly.

"What are these ruddy sticks. They make me feel like an infant."

"Just straws. You don’t got straws here?"

"Straws. I have never used such a pitiable contraption in all my life," the prisoner muttered, seemingly resigning himself to his dependency as he began to drink again. James merely chuckled and scooped out another mug full of wine before settling down once more. He glanced at the next door cage.

"Think your brother wants any? He moved at all this past week?"

Prisoner One let out an inelegant snort. “He woke up from what I presume to be a bad dream one day. Startled me out of a bit of lovely daydreaming. Other than that he has yet to acknowledge my greetings, so no, he will not be helping us drain what little entertainment we have been afforded by the leaky gods above.”

James sipped at his wine, his dark eyes moving once more to fix on the prisoner.

"…You got hurt feelin’s, don’t you. Been tryin’ ever since I’ve known you to talk to that boy, and I’ll bet my life he ain’t said a word back."

The prisoner’s red eyes glowed a bit in the dark, but finally his pale lips pulled back in a sneer. “Although riddled with grammatical infractions… your statement is correct. Though normally I would be loathe to admit it, I have always been weak to red wine, and more recently to whatever pitiable companionship I can get. Both tend to loosen my tongue more than I’d like.” There came a loud noise as the prisoner drained his wine and then childishly held out his mug for more. James silently obliged, handing the mug back into eager, shaking hands.

James toyed with his empty glass, letting the warmth spread through his body as the alcohol dulled his vision.

"Your kind capable of gettin’ drunk?"

"If we allow ourselves the luxury. It’s a rare moment but we are capable of succumbing. Particularly those of us whose houses rest in a warmer clime."

James made an interested noise and leaned forward a bit. “That so. How long you been around, since you know so much?”

The prisoner let out a heavy sigh, the shadows and dust stirring around him. The wine drained from his glass. James waited with stoic patience, contenting himself with the fact that the conversation may end here. The prisoner was tight-lipped with things that Uncle seemed to find commonplace. Dates and names and memories were carefully locked up, and what little glimpse James had been afforded he considered lucky enough, so he was surprised when the prisoner’s cool, even tone sounded once more.

"Since the time when you sad little apes first drew a line in the sand and proclaimed in your grunting, monosyllabic way ‘This is mine’, we have existed in one form or another. We were nameless until you named us, and since that moment we have been bitterly dependent upon you creatures to allow us to exist. Some of us love you and dote upon you in the hopes of returned favor, but others of us have lived too long to consider you worthy of any constructed emotion we can bestow." Red eyes narrowed in contempt. "Love, I suppose you would call it. In its most primitive, elegant form. For some it is a love that binds them to their people. To each other as well, I suppose, although we come and go, sometimes too quickly to form much more than a fleeting attachment."

James stretched out his legs, staring at the patch of blonde hair visible through the distant bars. “You sound like you’ve lost more than one brother. How they die?”

The prisoner laughed, the noise raucous with drink and a tangible bitterness. He leaned against the bars, eyes redder than the wine as he licked his lips.

"I ate them."

He burst into peals of delighted laughter as James recoiled, a horrified look on the American’s face. The soldier stared through the bars, a disgusted, captivated expression taking hold of him.

"You’re cannibals?"

"Cannibals in figurative speech only, my dear James," the prisoner said, a pleased smile curling at his lips. "Honestly, do you see a frame as slender as mine capable of devouring an entire humanoid sized being in one sitting? Perish the thought. I would be sick to my stomach before I even made it through a single thigh." He gave an elegant shrug and rested his arms through the bars, long fingernails scratching against the stone. "We devour our young at times as well, if it interests you. Hence as I said before the need to create an affected sense of attachment for some… we must fight our instincts, after all. We can become slaves to them just as you can."

The empty mug was once again brandished. James swapped it for his own and the prisoner drank once more, his lips and tongue focused solely on the wine.

James scraped the bottom of the barrel, setting aside the last of it. He wrapped his coat around his shoulders and stared at the soot-blackened floor, listening to the prisoner finish off his wine.

"You ever loved, then?"

The cellar grew quiet, the gentle clink of pewter against stone the only reprieve. James glanced up at the prisoner, his eyes reading intoxicated wariness in the thing’s face.

It was a long time before it spoke.

"I do."

James sat up a bit, edging closer to the bars. He pressed the mug of wine into the trembling hand before him. It was drained of its contents within seconds, and once the wine was gone he met dark, wicked red eyes, pale lashes barely shielding them from sight.

Lips curled into a proud, empty smile, silently asking to be pried open.

James took the mug.

"Who?"

Long fingers curled at nothing, the movement jagged and rough. Lips trembled and spoke.

"A king. And another."

They parted in a solemn laugh as the prisoner rested against the bars, a slender hand pressed against his face.

"And the second one I loved more dearly than I thought myself capable of. Black, twisted thing that I am. It took hold of me, possessed me with a jealous longing I never dreamed I would harbor, devoured me, took everything I had and raised it up in his name, tormenting me with what I had lost and what I could never hope to gain, for I lack something very small. A vital piece that would let me keep it close, hold on to it, convey to it with every word your kind has created that it is dear to me and worthy of my everything. My soul."

The prisoner laughed quietly, its shoulders slumping and its body contorting into a tiny space.

"If I had one to give, it would rest with him. My precious war… my darling Ludwig who has taken everything from me. He would own me soul and body were I able to hand myself freely over to him. Were I able to tell him of my love and were he able to return it. But it is too late for us. For me, really. He will never know of it, cannot, and the world will never know the glory and the beautiful ruin we could have been together."

James remained quiet as the prisoner spoke, his eyes tracing the cracks in the porcelain skin. Spider-like and razor thin, they crept across the thing’s hands, his cheeks, his bare, twisted feet.

And then they were gone, as though the wind had blown them shut.

The prisoner sniffed quietly and straightened, staring coolly through the bars.

"Forget what you heard, Herr James. They are the drunken ravings of an old fool and if you do recall them, they will be recalled as such. Understood?"

James slowly shook his head, leaning back against the barrel, staring at the man in front of him.

"He hurt you bad, huh. Just too chicken shit scared to admit it."

The lantern shattered.

James softly cursed and picked up the pieces of glass, moving carefully in the dark to not cut himself.

"I think it best you leave now, Herr James."

The voice made his spine crawl.

"You do not want to be here in the dark with me."

James slowly gathered up the glass, dumping it in the empty barrel before pushing it aside. He nodded in the direction of the cage, towards the glowing eyes.

"Be back later, then. And you can tell me all about this Ludwig fellow."

The red eyes dismissed him.

"Leave, James. Before I regret letting you go."

With a little shrug, the soldier left, the cellar door shutting behind him.

(~*~)

The light in the sitting room was nearly blinding, the pristine white and gold of the furniture making the glare even harsher.

James stood to attention at the side of the room with his fellow soldiers, trying to keep his eyes from wandering. To think that a room this elegant and pompous housed such a dirty, drab cellar. It was almost pathetically cliché. A diamond in the rough of sickeningly mundane proportions.

The men to either side of him stirred restlessly, all eyes fixed on the four figures chatting amiably by the window. Amiably enough, save for the weapons in hand. Uncle appeared to be leading the discussion as usual, his boyishly handsome face beaming with the glow of victory that had yet to fade. His three other companions looked a bit more weary, the dark circles under bright blue and green and pale violet eyes standing out in stark contrast.

All four fell silent as the burnished doors swung open, and the two prisoners were led inside. James caught Prisoner One’s eye, and the thing afforded him the smallest of smiles before it turned to face the four gathered by the window. Prisoner Two’s head was bowed, and for the first time James could fully appreciate how massive it must have been. But now its broad shoulders were hunched, its hair matted and dirty, just like its brother’s. Its back, however, lacked the steel rigidity of pride that made the frailer brother stand up tall.

Red eyes shone and hands gestured amiably.

"My friends. What a pleasure to see you all this evening."

Sir’s eyes narrowed, and Mssr. Bonnefoy rested a calming hand on his shoulder.

"You can drop the act any time," the Brit spat out, shrugging touch away. "You know why you’re here. Don’t erase the last century with a few pitiful words."

Prisoner One laughed in delight, stretching out long, withered arms and resting his unbound hands behind his back. “Indeed I do, my good island. But I am no coward. My brothers smiled at me when it was their turn, and so I smile at you.” He tilted his head to the side, hair falling in his face. “Call it a tradition, if you will.”

The tallest of the four chuckled quietly, thin lips pressed in an amused line behind its scarf.

Uncle looked a bit confused, but then he took a little step forward and glanced at his watch.

“‘Bout time, wouldn’t you say?” Blue eyes fixed on Prisoner Two. “You ready? It’ll go just like I said.”

James stared at the second prisoner as the goliath slowly nodded his head and then cleared his throat to speak.

"Yes."

The word hung quiet and heavy in the air, the weight of Damocles nearly suffocating.

Prisoner One glanced up at the other, and James could read past the mask on his face. It was the same face he wore when he lost at cards. When he drank too much wine and spoke of loss.

It was devastation in its rawest form, besmirched only by a weathered smile.

Gentle fingers pushed on the small of the blonde’s back, sending him forward with a tenderness that made the Four glance curiously at each other.

Prisoner Two turned to stare at the albino, his expression completely blank. Blue eyes dull. Face pale. Hit wavered on unsteady limbs, the life drained from its form.

Prisoner One shook his head. “Is that any way to act in front of your inferiors?” he murmured, eyes glowing with a soft fondness. “You always were pathetically vulnerable when facing loss.”

Prisoner Two remained quiet. James had to wonder if he’d even heard his brother’s voice. If he’d caught the gently coaxing and clandestine pride, saw the way the other’s jaw clenched, his feet shifted, the very essence of his bearing struggling to remain still, to not reach out to the other. But it was as though the iron wall still separated them, and the goliath’s eyes passed right through.

James saw the moment when his friend surrendered. His eyes grew dead, his features leaden, and there was little doubt none of the others gathered paid it mind, even noticed the voiceless misery and isolation the small, thin man embraced with a quiet acceptance.

Uncle cleared his throat to break the silence and took a little step forward. His voice was jarringly shallow. It made James’ skin crawl.

"We can skip the usual ceremony or whatever, since I’m in charge. Don’t really fancy this takin’ up a long time. Still got some other stuff to take care of today."

Sir stepped forward as well with a little roll of his eyes and held out a small pen-knife. “You mustn’t always rebel against tradition, you know,” he said crossly. “Here, Germany. This is what you’ll use.”

Prisoner Two slowly stirred to life, large hands moving clumsily, a reborn monster’s as they embraced the tiny knife. For a moment his blue eyes flicked towards the other, alighted upon the pale face of his brother and silently. Desperately seeking confirmation. Acceptance. Acknowledgement.

Prisoner One merely smiled, rocking slightly back and forth on his heels as he tutted. “Oh, England. To think you of all nations would be holding that damn thing out towards me. It makes my flesh crawl to see you so pathetically arrogant.”

Sir bristled a bit, but Uncle’s laughter stopped him. Jonesy’s bright blue eyes fixed on the prisoner, the smile on his face turning a bit sad.

"Sorry, Pru. But this is what we all want. Even him." He pointed towards the blonde, who was staring at the knife cupped in his roughly hewn fingers, shoulders twitching very slightly.

Prisoner One’s smile remained firmly in place, but James could see his hands tremble behind his back before they grew still. The pale thing glanced around the room, with a look of utter boredom on his face, the easy, empty smile never faltering. He dismissed it at large.

There was nothing left for him there.

Outside, the church bells began ringing, signaling the hour. Orange light poured through the lofty windows, bathing the room in a soft, warm glow, setting the walls ablaze.

Prisoner Two lifted his head, blue eyes fixing on his brother’s face, but he made no other move.

The air stood still for an age before Sir made an impatient noise and took a step forward, the bells nearly drowning out his strident voice.

"Forty six! Just sign your mark and be done with it!"

Prisoner One laughed quietly, his arms dropping to his sides. Underneath the clamor of hammer upon bronze, James could hear his soft voice.

"You’ve wanted this for so long, brother. To be rid of all of me. The pain I put you through, the wonderful things I denied your very being, what I had no intention of ever providing."

Prisoner Two flinched as his brother continued to speak, the German words quiet and soothing, inviting in their tone and meter. James could see the blonde man’s veneer begin to splinter, the words needling at him, driving under his skin until finally, he broke.

With a sudden flurry of movement, he reached out to pull his brother into a near embrace, and in the reddening light, James saw a look of quiet happiness crossed the albino’s face. It softened his eyes and the lines around his mouth, made human hands press gently against his brother’s chest, fingers curling with long denied rapture.

A sure hand gripped the knife, and with a flash of red and gold, Germany plunged the blade into his brother’s chest. Prussia let out an anguished cry, his hands moving to clutch desperately at his brother’s shoulders, skeletal fingers digging into atrophied muscle as the razor edge sank in past the hilt, tearing through clothing and flesh with inexorable efficiency. The prisoner repeated the motion, his face hidden behind long strings of dirty blonde hair, calloused fingers embracing the knife tightly as he finished carving the cross shape deep into his brother. Blood black as ink poured from the wound, covering his hand and arm and staining the pretty embroidered carpet, swallowing up colorful song birds.

Outside the church bells continued to chime, the air wavering with each strike of the clapper.

Prussia’s hand trembled as it pressed against his brother’s cheek, bleached face striped with black. He pulled himself up to press pale lips to Germany’s ear. Lithe fingers danced over roughened skin, fingertips curling gently into perfect blonde locks, marred chest stilling as a little smile hid against his brother’s skin.

Another strike of the bells hid last words from prying ears.

Germany’s eyes squeezed shut, and Prussia’s fingers grew still against his face.

The onlookers remained silent, the humans shifting uneasily as the black blood pooled against the carpet, inching towards them. One glare from Uncle made them stand at the ready again, although some anxious sounds still jarred the air.

James blinked his eyes to cover the sting and watched as the pale body was laid down on the carpet with misplaced reverence.

Uncle suddenly let out an exaggerated sigh and took a step back, lacing his fingers behind his head. “Alright. Guess we can report that that law’s all taken care of,” he said cheerfully.

"Almost a shame to watch him go like that," Mssr. Bonnefoy said with a little frown, turning away from the carcass. "I would have thought he’d meet his end at one of our hands."

Uncle snorted. “At your hand, Frenchie? I doubt it. Not with-“

"Wait."

Uncle turned back to the carcass with a slightly perplexed look on his face. Prisoner Two was standing, his blackened fingers still wrapped around the knife. He took a step forward, his Adam’s apple bobbing in a sadly human gesture, a black cross staining his dirty uniform, just above his heart, dripping steadily onto the carpet.

"W-Wait."

His deep voice was that of a child’s. The knife shook.

"You said I wouldn’t have to see. You said it would be painless." The prisoner’s eyes grew frantic. "You said he’d disappear, that I wouldn’t remember!"

Uncle blinked his wide blue eyes and leaned to the side a bit to peer around the German. “Oh. That.” He shrugged, an embarrassed grin on his face. “I sort of lied. End’s the same though, right? And you can just take that thing out to the courtyard or somethin’ and put a match to it. That’ll make it disappear pretty fast. They burn up just like those over there.” He jerked his thumb towards the soldiers.

Germany trembled, the knife falling from his hands as he buried his face in them, fingers slowly scratching at his skin, drawing new lines of blackened ink.

Sir clicked his tongue in agitation. “You wanted to be rid of him, and now you are. You’ve been saying for years what a controlling pest he is. What does it matter that his shell is still hanging about ruining this formerly lovely carpet? It’s done.”

Prisoner Two slowly moved his hand, pressing it over the wound against his heart. He sank to his knees, collapsing in ruin until his forehead was resting against his brother’s shoulder. The carcass’s porcelain face was fixed in a smile, pale lashes stained black, ruby eyes still bright as ever.

Germany made a hushed noise and the room shook. The church bells tolled past their hour.

"You lied."

Uncle tilted his head to the side and cast confused looks at the other three. “…Sorry?”

Germany sobbed quietly, his emaciated frame shaking.

"W-When will this go away?" James watched the large fingers clutch frantically at the cross over his heart, tearing into the fabric with a frenzied desperation. "When will it go away?"

Sir rolled his eyes slightly and shrugged. “A few decades, perhaps. Although there will be historians who insist on clinging to things. Rather meddlesome, but you will grow accustomed to the scar.” He fell quiet again and the room fell with him, the bells tolling madly in the distance.

Prisoner Two seemed to draw in on himself, curling up as though he were still locked in the cage, his heavy body resting atop his brother’s shell.

The soldiers all shifted uncomfortably, casting hopeful looks at Uncle Jonesy until he finally waved a hand, dismissing them.

James remained behind the longest, staring down at the black ink staining his shoes. Leeching into the fabric. Coloring the hesitant steps he took. He lifted his head and glanced wearily out the open windows, the light marring the clouds bright pinks and reds.

The erstwhile silent prisoner embraced an empty form, pressed his face against a blackened cross.

Forty six times the bells struck their chords, and Prussia was no more.

(~*~)

James took a hesitant step onto the well-manicured lawn, the cake in his hands shifting a bit with his nervousness.

It was a normal house. Single story. Small window boxes of flowers adding a bit of rustic charm to the urban setting. A neat sidewalk and smart looking door inviting in the setting sun.

His feet shuffled back and forth for a moment before walking up to the door. His knuckles rapped on the elegant surface.

The door slowly opened, and West Germany stared down at him with a little frown.

"Can I help-"

Blue eyes widened with recognition, and after a moment the blonde stepped aside.

"Please, come in."

James nodded politely and said a quiet “Thanks.” He stepped past the threshold, toeing off his shoes at the silent request of his host. He followed him back to a pristine kitchen, and set the cake down on the counter.

West Germany’s back was to him, his hands busy with the kettle.

"Tea? Or… I suppose Americans still prefer coffee."

James shook his head. “Tea’s just fine. Don’t mean to trouble you.”

"It’s no trouble."

James watched as it placed a teabag in a pot and set the kettle on the stove, broad shoulders tense. Finally it turned, blue eyes narrowing slightly.

"You are Herr James. Are you not? The man who kept m-… who kept Prisoner One company."

"He was just as much company to me as I was to him."

The blonde’s mouth pressed into a thin line, an unreadable look flashing across his face before it vanished.

"That is more than I can say he was to me."

The kettle started to whistle, and West Germany turned around to pour the tea. “Please, Herr James. My home is yours. Make yourself comfortable.”

"Ah… thanks." James glanced around and finally settled down at the plain looking kitchen table, tugging the lid off the cake. He remained silent as West Germany bustled around the kitchen, gathering up plates and forks and knives and cups before bringing everything over to the table and sitting down as well.

It poured him some tea and pushed the cup across the table. “I have milk and sugar, if you’d like.”

James smiled a bit and shook his head, picking up the cup. “Missus says I need to cut out the sugar.”

Blue eyes flicked questioningly to the cake, and James chuckled.

"All for you. With love from America." James laughed quietly again. "Not Uncle Jonesy. Guess I should clarify that."

West Germany pursed his lips and then nodded slightly, cutting a little slice. “Is the flavor supposed to be an ironic touch?”

James laughed and set his tea cup down. “Nah, the wife just loves coconut. German chocolate’s her favorite. Always has been.”

"…I see."

They sat in silence for a bit, James’ attention caught by the golden retriever that came padding out of one of the back rooms and rested its head on his lap. He scratched the dog behind the ears, grinning as its tail went berserk with happiness.

"Friendly dog."

"Well trained. It’s… something of a hobby of mine as of late."

"Ah."

James glanced up at the German, and then finally let out a little sigh. “Guess we should get down to why I flew across an ocean to shove a cake at you.”

Its fingers tensed, shoulders every bit as rigid as its slicked back hair.

"…If we must."

James reached into his pocket and pulled out an old piece of paper, holding it out towards the blonde.

"He asked that I give this to you. A little present I drew for him a while back, but I guess he knew he wasn’t goin’ to be able to take it with him. Day he died I woke up with it shoved in my wallet. He always did like stealin’ my things and messin’ with ‘em."

West Germany hesitated, his eyes hardening for a moment before he reluctantly took the little scrap, turning it over in his large fingers before carefully unfolding it. Blue eyes widened in surprise and he looked up at James again, his face deathly pale.

"This-… you drew this?" His voice was jarringly soft. Disconnected.

James nodded. “Fixed it up a bit at his request.” He smiled a bit and rested his chin in his hands. “Artist’s job, after all. Show the man what he really wants. Portraits get painted as little lies every day, but I figure this is a lie that meant a hell of a lot more to him than just erasin’ a few wrinkles on a withered face.”

West Germany made a quiet noise and stared down at the two brothers, the lines of lead nearly blurred beyond recognition in places. But the features, the lines of the faces, the gentle press of bodies against one another remained.

Silence stretched between them for a long time before James spoke up again.

"Got somethin’ I wanted to ask you, too. Hopin’ you’ll indulge an old man’s curiosity."

Rough fingers smoothed over the edges of the paper, the smallest shadow of doubt rending at the corners of its handsome face. Eating away at indifferent lines, reexamining words and quieter, older recollections.

"Anything."

James crossed his arms over his chest.

"…I know Jonesy’s name. Know Sir’s. Even the frog’s and that damn commie’s. So a man’s gotta get to wonderin’. What was his?"

West Germany looked up quickly, his lips bared in a snarl. “They were fools to tell you,” he snapped, shock and injured pride resurfacing. “Idiots who clearly don’t understand when some things should be kept private, especially when they can be perverted and used by a temporary thing like you.”

James’ brow furrowed in confusion, and he waited a moment before he said quietly, “That’s not what my nation told me. Or what my allies told me. They ate and drank with us, fought with us, called us by our human names. Natural that we’d return the favor. Hell, Alfred practically begged us to drop the whole Uncle thing, but it was just too damn funny. Same reason Arthur gets his princely knickers all in a twist whenever his men call him Sir. End of the day, they’re just the same as us. Alfred F. Jones, Arthur Kirkland, Francis… damn. Never can pronounce the frog’s last name. Or that commie fellow’s. Ivan.”

Blue eyes dimmed a bit with confusion, and after a moment they dropped again, staring at the piece of paper. Memoires exhumed once again, it seemed.

James fell quiet for a long time before he said softly, “You’re Ludwig. Aren’t you.”

It tensed, hands shaking so badly the paper nearly tore in two. It slowly raised darkened blue eyes to fix on James’ face, lips pale and trembling as it spoke.

"Where did you hear that?"

James nodded towards the frail portrait.

"Shared a couple glasses of wine while you were curled up in your cell. He told me then, that there’s only two things he’s ever loved. Some long dead king, and a man named Ludwig."

West Germany remained silent, not stirring even when his dog whined anxiously and rested its head in his lap.

James frowned slightly and leaned forward as he quietly said again, “‘Cept Ludwig ain’t really a man, as it turns out.” He scratched his finger against the pristine table. “That brother of yours… he buried himself under banners and cruel words. Twisted you into an callous mess like him and made you lock up your own name. All ‘cause he was damn scared that once you were human you’d leave him. Just like that king done. He’d love you and you’d leave him.”

James shook his head, taking the portrait from West Germany’s frozen hands. “Bravest and most reckless thing I ever met, but anyone with half a brain could tell. I’d put out the candle and walk up the stairs and hear him cryin’ in the dark for you. For anyone but especially for that uncarin’, bitter thing in the cell next door. The thing he loved so bad he smiled when it greeted him with nothin’ but wordless death.”

James narrowed his eyes.

"You’re Ludwig. Aren’t you."

An age stretched between them before the nation slowly nodded his head and said a soft, “Yes.”

James leaned back in his chair, glancing up at the ceiling so the man across from him could fall apart in peace.

"And his name?"

The house became settled in shadow, a dark cross bleeding over the heart of Germany as he mourned the new found humanity that came from the mere uttering of a name, the quiet acceptance of a long-sought human condition.

From the agony of bitter enlightenment.

(~*~)

On the back of a portrait of two brothers, two names were scrawled in bits of lead.

In loving strokes the first name was rendered, painstakingly carved in secret.

The second, in smaller, unsure print. Letters unsteady and ringed with salt.

They hung in a house, hidden from prying eyes, in a glass frame above the fireplace.

Every night, the house’s occupant would brush his fingers over the simple lines.

Read them quietly to himself when the rafters shook and the sun began to set.

And in another house, across a wide expanse of sea and land, in a small living room just south of Chicago, an old man sat down in front of the fire, leaned forward towards young, eager faces.

"Today I’m goin’ to tell you a story about war."

"A story about war that’s really just a story about a few, old men who were all missin’ kings."

"It starts with some parchment, and ends with a single pen, and in a small cellar in Berlin, a man named Gilbert was starin’ into darkness, tappin’ his fingers against an iron cage as he waited for his brother to finally wake up."

(~*~)

Fin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Thank you so much to everyone who read. It has been a joy receiving all of your comments, emails, criticisms, praise… all of it. Thank you. <3 LP)


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